Bloodline: The 80th Hunger Games
by One True Victor
Summary: The Hunger Games are going as strong as ever, when tragedy strikes. Devastating events leave President Snow incapable of running the nation to his fullest, leaving his Grand-daughter, Celestia Snow, to be thrust into power. While the Capitol must welcome a new ruler from a powerful bloodline, Celestia must impress and provide to a bloodthirsty nation. SYOT Closed!
1. Prologue I

**~WARNING~**

This story will contain swearing, intense gore, and sexual occurrences. Only submit if you are tolerant and okay with this type of content.

* * *

 _Bloodline : /_ ˈblʌdlʌɪn/

(blood-line)

a set of ancestors or line of descent of an important person.

 _"the survival of a legitimate royal bloodline"_

* * *

 **Celestia Snow**

 **~17~**

 **Capitol**

"So, what do you think?" He asks tenderly, eyes soft and frail, compared to how they usually are, cold and malicious. It's not a very common thing to see President Snow in this way, he always needs to be powerful, scary, all the things a leader of Panem ought to be.

It was a very common sight to see him this way for me however, as I'm one of the few that can bring such an expression upon him. After all, I am his granddaughter. Despite this, I give him an expression to suggest I'm revolted, which I quite honestly am.

"Grandfather, you know I hate it when District 2 comes out victorious. It's so generic now, and this is no exception. All he is. . . is some arrogant asshole," I mutter spitefully. I hear the slight hum of a laugh that Grandfather gives, suggesting he knew the answer before I even said it.

"But you must like District 2, they provide action, death, they are part of the reason why The Hunger Games thrive!" he gushes in his calculating but croaky voice. I sigh, leaning back against the plush chair.

"You know I don't like the Hunger Games," I say bitterly, shaking my head. He examines me, a glint in his eye as he smiles.

"Aw, are you still upset about the 74th Hunger Games? Oh, is that why you hate District 2?" He wonders. I take a moment before answering, eventually giving in to his question.

"Maybe," I mutter. In all honesty, it is the truth, he was correct. Katniss Everdeen, she was an inspiration, to all girls out there. She was powerful, a warrior, I looked up to her as my eleven-year-old self. I was rooting for her and her lover until the very end, but Cato strangled Peeta to death, and threw his dead body into Katniss, knocking her off the Cornucopia and down to the mutts.

Ever since that moment, I have resented District 2.

"I hope you understand Celestia, why we need to have the Hunger Games," Grandfather says with a sigh. I roll my eyes, shaking my head slightly out of pure disgust.

"To keep the District's in line, yeah I get it," I groan. President Snow, I know who he is. I know that he is an evil and cruel man. I've known that for years. But as much as I try to sometimes, I am incapable of actually hating him. I love him, he is my bloodline, and there is nothing I can do to change that. He grins at me, nodding his head despite the heavy sarcasm that was hidden in my words.

"Now, you didn't answer me before, what do you think?" Once again, he raises the image up so I can see it. It depicts a young man, strong, muscular, brutish, with tanned skin and a shaved head. He has a triumphant smirk on his head, and holds a heavy looking war hammer. I'm revolted by him.

"I hate it," I inform him, turning away. This causes him to chuckle.

"Which means the Capitol will love it! Ryus Griftyte, Victor of the 79th Annual Hunger Games!" He calls out, his voice echoing throughout the room.

"Sounds horrible," I sigh.

"I think it has a nice ring to it," he comments, scratching his snowy white beard.

"Now, I must get this design sent to his stylist immediately," he exclaims, standing up quickly. He makes it a couple of steps, until he stops suddenly. I don't take much notice of it to begin with, but as time quickly passes, I notice the sound of his heavy breathing. It becomes more ragged, as he leans against the table. I finally look up as he begins to cough. My forehead instantly becomes creased with concern.

"Grandfather? Are you okay?" I ask hesitantly. It takes a moment for him to reply, but he manages to through the gasps and wheezes.

"Yeah. . . I'm quite fi-. . . I. . ." Is all he manages to get out, before he collapses onto one knee. Now I'm alert.

"Help! The President is hurt!" I cry out in disarray. It takes about a second for people to burst through the door. They stop dead in the tracks, spotting my Grandfather now writhing on his back, on the floor. I don't know how to react; I don't understand what is happening to him. All of this, has been so sudden.

As people surround him, my sight of him is blocked, and I cannot make out what they are doing anymore. I barely notice someone grabbing my waist, whisking me away so I am out of sight. Tears are streaming down my face, and I have begun to sob with despair.

"Get away from me! Take me to my Grandfather!" I screech, trying to escape the strong grip of the guards.

"Your Grandfather is receiving the best care possible, he is going to be okay," I hear one of them say. It sounds so far away, it's as if all my senses have completely drifted to another reality. My fight becomes weaker, and soon enough I'm a blubbering mess, held up only by the arms of the guards.

The next twelve hours or so are nothing far off agonizing. It's full of fear, waiting, and absolute mystery. What happened? What if he doesn't make it? What is going to occur if that possibility becomes a reality? I spend the time staring blankly at the wall of my bedroom, feeling the tears drip down my face. The silence makes my ears ring, as I run through every possibility in my mind, of what could happen. Did I just watch my Grandfather die? The thought, is too real, and undeniably terrifying.

My mind pictures his gasping face, as the color completely drained from it. I can clearly see the writhing figure of him on the floor, and the sweat that coated his face. Suddenly, I'm rushing into my bathroom, releasing all the built up sickness from my stomach. The acidic bile scorches my mouth, and the taste is horrid, yet I lean over the toilet bowl, staring wearily at the contents I had just spewed up.

I groan as I pick myself up, struggling to stand with my shaking knees. I manage to drag myself over to the sink, where I stare at myself in the flawless mirror. I wish I could look that flawless at the moment, but unfortunately, I look nothing of the sort. My cheeks are red, while my skin is pale. My eyes have rings around the, from fatigue and tears, my light blonde hair is a complete mess, and I just look plain sickly.

Grandfather says, I look just like my mother did. It brings more tears to my eyes, the thought of my parents. I never met either of them, I was only an infant. But I've lived all of these years, and never known what it feels like to feel the true tender hug of a mother, or the protective and humbled love of a father. I could argue that it's made me stronger, and more independent as a woman, but it's not nice knowing that you could have had something, only for it to be snatched away from you.

I was told that they were both murdered, poisoned in fact. I don't know the details, but I know whoever did it never got caught. My Grandfather was livid, and heartbroken. All he had was me, so I was raised a Snow. Now. . . All I've got is him, and the possibility of losing that, is the most terrifying thing I've ever had to experience.

"Celestia?" a voice calls from behind the closed door. I look up at myself again, sniffling away my sorrow. It is an effort to turn myself around, but I eventually do it.

"Yes?" I croak out. Agh, my throat feels like sandpaper. It sounds like my voice box has been ripped to shreds.

"I-I've been instructed to tell you that you're able to visit your Grandfather," the voice informs me, sounding quite shaky. I take some shaky steps towards the door, before opening it slowly. I face a random woman, who stands with her back straight.

"Is he alive?" I ask quietly. I watch her carefully, as she swallows.

"I'm not quite sure, I believe you should come see for yourself," she responds. I close my eyes, before sighing heavily.

"O-okay," I choke out.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hey there! My name is One True Victor, but you can call me OTV or Victor for short. Welcome to my first SYOT! I'm certain most people reading this are familiar with SYOT's by now, but I will still lay out my ground rules. What did you think of the first prologue chapter? What did you think of Celestia? I would love to know!**

 **So, this is the first prologue, there will be another one up quite soon, and that will lead us up to the Tribute List! Now just because this is the first story on this account, don't let that discourage you from submitting! I have read countless SYOT's and even wrote one on another account! But I'm starting on a fresh slate, so here I am!**

 **The Submission Form will be on my profile, as well as a constantly updated tribute list. I'll move onto the rules, and hopefully we can get this show on the road!**

* * *

 **Compulsory Rules:**

 _If you find these strict, don't let it deter you from submitting! For the majority, you can see where I am coming from._

 **1.** Submissions must be sent in through PM. I will under no circumstances accept a submission sent through review.

 **2.** You are not to submit a tribute from an existing SYOT. I want the tribute to be unique to the story, and its blatantly unfair to both myself and the author that accepted that tribute into theirs. So no recycling tributes UNLESS - the story never begun, or the tribute wasn't accepted. It doesn't take that long to create a tribute. If a tribute is caught being recycled, or I discover you submitted them to another story after mine, I will kill them off in the bloodbath. I am sorry, but even if they are my favorite tribute, they will be killed off.

 **3.** No reservations! This is not first come first serve, I am up for quality tributes. If I start getting enough submissions I will give a deadline.

 **4.** There is no limit to how many submissions you can send in! Feel free to submit as many as you want! However, depending on how many submissions I get, spots are limited. If submissions are low, I'll allow two per author. If not, only one per author. This is so everybody has a chance to have a tribute!

 **5.** No Mary Sue's or Gary Stu's. If they are so cliché that they are basically unkillable, they won't even be considered.

I believe those are all the main rules, but I may add to it on my profile if any more occur to me. Now I will be adding what I call recommended guidelines. These are what you should follow if you want a tribute to be accepted, and if you want to make it far.

* * *

 **Recommended Guidelines:**

 **1.** Review! This is recommended as it is the most important to me. Reviews are great for feedback and constructive criticism, and it helps me decide where the story may go. Your say always tends to have an impact on the story, and it is what motivates me the most to write. If you get your tribute in and just ghost read, never showing that you're actually reading, don't expect the tribute to make it very far, because what is the point of them doing so when other people that are reading and showing support and feedback want theirs to make it far as well? The more you review, the more likely you are to make it far, but if you never review, I'll just assume you never read the story.

 **2.** Make the tribute interesting and unique! Don't be afraid that just because they are a prostitute, or homosexual, or a devil worshipper, that they won't be accepted. I'm up for doing absolutely anything, and the more unique the better. But also, I do like the sane, normal, nice, loving tributes as well. So don't think if they are a little boring or they don't have that weird factor, that they won't make it either.

 **3.** On my profile, I will have the basic appearance and common features for that District, as well as common name types from that District. I really would like you to make the appearance based on the District, and give them a good name. I'm not going to like a boring ordinary name like Ryan, or Charlotte, or Jack, John, Joanne, just don't give me a name like that. Give me a name that reflect the District style, and if you don't want to do that, make the name unique, like Xena, or Rem.

. . . I do love the names Zoey and Holly though, if you have that as the name for your tribute, you're already headed in the right direction.

* * *

 **That's it! Hope to get some fantastic submissions!**


	2. Prologue II

**Prologue II**

* * *

 _Monarch : /_ ˈmɒnək/

(mon-ark)

a sovereign head of state, especially a king, queen, or emperor.

 _"the reigning monarch"_

* * *

 **Celestia Snow**

 **~17~**

 **Capitol**

"Which way?" It sounds dark coming from my mouth. Blunt, emotionless, all evidence of fear having dropped away. All I feel now is determined, determined to see my Grandfather alive and well, sitting up in his hospital bed laughing and joking with the nurses. Who am I kidding? If he was capable of doing that, he still wouldn't do anything of the sorts. The nurse that I demand show me to my Grandfather looks quite taken aback, apparently never being used to such an authoritative seventeen-year old girl before.

"Uh, just down this hall, last door on the right," she stammers, leaping out of my way as I stride past her. I shouldn't be acting this way, I'm being so cold and hostile, it's as if I'm. . . becoming my Grandfather. The thought makes me shudder, and I think back to only yesterday, when he had been asking me about my thoughts on last years' victor, Ryus Griftyte from District 2. I would prefer to retain my anti-games ideology if I can.

Unfortunately, such a thought means so little to me right now, and as soon as I consider it, I find it at the back of my mind. I'm too determined to see my Grandfather alive. As I get closer to the door, it becomes quite apparent which room my Grandfather is located. Who else would have four guards waiting outside of the room? The sight is slightly comforting, as it causes me to know that he is being protected to the fullest. However, I really don't have time to put up with their shit right now.

"Move, now," I command them. I expect disobedience, reasons as to why they cannot do such a thing, for why they would not be allowed to let me in. However, the response is one I've never seen used before, for anyone other than my Grandfather.

"Yes, of course your greatness," they simultaneously mutter, bowing their heads and kneeling on one knee. My mouth drops open out of surprise, as I'm completely shocked by their actions.

"W-wait, what? What did you call me?" I ask, my voice so high it could pierce glass. Before they answer, the door opens, revealing the pristine white room inside. I feel a hand press lightly against my shoulder, as one of Grandfather's personal advisors guides me into the room.

"We are pleased to have you arrive Miss President," the woman gushes. My eyes widen in heavy disbelief.

"Hold on, President? And who are you?" I demand.

"Hollander Rhine, your greatness," she informs me.

"That's enough. . . Hollander. I would like to speak to my Grand-daughter," a weak and scratchy voice requests. Both of our heads immediately turn to the source of the voice, with Hollander nodding her head and taking a step backwards, and myself becoming overcome with joy. My heart beats heavily, as my eyes light up in pure relief. President Snow, sits up against the bed. His face appears sallow and worn, with heavy bags underneath his cold grey eyes. He looks tired, fatigued, but still perfectly alive.

I notice the tubes that have been plugged into his arm, and it turns my stomach into a churning mess. Regardless, I swiftly make my way over towards him, carefully embracing his frail frame into a hug. Normally, our hugs last two seconds at most, yet today I cannot bring myself to let go. Ten seconds into the hug, I feel him attempting to part ways. I release his body, stepping back and giving him a weak smile. I try to show him that I'm strong, that I'm soldiering on, but I know he can read through my facade. He has always been very good at reading people emotions.

"You're concerned," he whispers, his voice not capable of raising any louder. I don't even attempt to deny it.

"Of course I am, you collapsed right in front of me! How else should I be taking this?" I exclaim.

This causes him to smile, a twinkle of appreciation evident in his eyes.

"That warms my heart Celestia," he responds with a chuckle. My eyes widen when the chuckle turns into a heavy cough. The hacking cough is covered by a handkerchief, which he hastily tries to stash away before I can see the contents. Unfortunately, I spot the crimson blood staining the fabric.

"You're coughing up blood," I say quietly, solemn faced as I attempt to mask my concern once again. He sighs, leaning his head back against the soft cushiony pillow.

"Indeed I am," he responds sadly.

"Grandfather, what is wrong? Are you going to be okay?" I ask. He breathes heavily, taking a moment before answering my question.

"As of now, I am okay. It won't remain that way for long Celestia, I will wither, die away, and eventually I will perish." The words sound so evil, and daunting, I find it hard to come up with an appropriate response.

"Way to sugar coat things," I attempt to sound humored, but it doesn't really work. He nods sadly, before waving his hand in a way that suggests he wants me to come closer to him. I take a couple of steps forward, so that I am directly next to him. He hands me a delicate sheet of paper, one with countless words in a very small text, with his own signature at the bottom. I cannot help but produce an expression of confusion.

"What is this?" I ask softly.

"Read the top of the sheet," he replies. As my eyes scan over the words, they become a complete blur, mainly due to my mind spinning out of absolute shock.

"You're. . . passing on the Presidency, to me?" I stammer. I look at him horrified, with his expression being surprisingly calm and understanding.

"I know this is a big responsibility thrust onto you Celestia, but it's absolutely necessary that I pass it on to you now," he reasons. My mouth opens and closes, as I am panic stricken to the fullest extent.

"I-I can't be the President!" I cry out doubtingly.

"There is no other option Celestia. I am no longer healthy enough or capable enough of running this nation any longer. I will be bed bound for the rest of my days, so I must hand it off to you," he informs me.

"Why me?!" I ask alarmed.

"Because you are my Grand-daughter, you are of my bloodline, and you must continue the Snow legacy," he says softly, beaming proud. All I can emit is a small choking noise.

"I know you are capable Celestia, you are strong, intelligent, independent, you will do both Panem and myself proud. I'll be alongside you, every step of the way," he almost whispers. I look at his weak, dopey face, my own being full of worry and dread. Me, running Panem. Responsible for keeping the District's in line, for controlling the Hunger Games, for keeping the Capitol happy. In the span of 24 hours, I've suddenly had the responsibility of running a country thrust onto me.

"I just need you to sign here, Madame," Hollander comments, pointing at an empty line at the bottom of the document. A crimson red pen rests at the base of the sheet, taunting me, egging me on. I sigh, before I reluctantly pick up the pen. I can't let Grandfather down; he is depending on me.

I hastily jot down my signature, causing him to close his eyes and lean his head back against the pillow.

"Make me proud," he mutters, as someone attempts to lead me away.

"Hold on! I want to spend time with him!" I snarl at the individual with their hand on my shoulder.

"Madame President, he needs time to rest. There is the media outside, looking for a statement from yourself," she informs me.

"M-media?" I stutter.

"Yes Madame," Hollander confirms. My eyes become large circles, as I am taken down the hall, surrounded by all of these foreign guards and advisors, that I have never even met. As the President, Grandfather always kept me out of the media. He would have any reporters killed if they so much as mentioned me. Now, he cannot do that. Now, I have to face the country, my country.

As soon as I exit the front doors of the hospital, I am bombarded by countless flashes, completely blinding me for a short moment. I am forced to shield my eyes from the bombarding occurrence of flashes, that make white dots pop up repeatedly in my vision. Somehow, despite my impaired state, Hollander manages to guide me to a relatively open area, complete with a microphone and all. Is this why they stalled my visit to my Grandfather? So they could set this up?

"It is time, whenever you're ready Madame, we are ready to address the entire nation," Hollander manages to communicate to me over the thundering noise of the media's questions. It's as if her words just go in one ear and out the other, it does not fully hit me that I am about to address the entirety of Panem as President Celestia Snow. All her words do is earn one thought from me.

 _But I'm not ready for this._

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Here we have the second prologue chapter! Trust me, the actual chapters will be way longer than this, I'm just trying to give samples of my writing capabilities. We will be seeing a lot more of Celestia throughout the story, but in order for the story to start, we need submissions!**

 **There are plenty of spots to submit to, as none are off the table until I make it official. If you are not sure on submitting because you aren't confident on my updating or if I'll finish, I swear to you now that I am committing myself to finishing this story. So please submit and we can get this going!**

 **(Fun fact - As President Snow's Grand-daughter was never named in the book, the films have provided her with the name Celestia, which I have implemented into this story.)**


	3. Prologue III

**Prologue III**

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 _Reign : /_ reɪn/

(ray-n)

hold royal office; rule as monarch.

 _"Queen Elizabeth reigns over the UK"_

* * *

 **President of Panem**

 **Celestia Snow**

 **~17~**

 **Capitol**

I never particularly favored heights. I mean, honestly, who would? It's a one-way ticket to feeling nausea, dizzy, angst, all of those 'pleasing' feelings. Grandfather always knew that. As heartless as he is, he would make it his mission to make sure I would never have to look out a window that involved an absurdly high height.

Every time we would be venturing somewhere, while he had meetings and had to stay overnight, or even visited luxurious hotels with high ranking officials and celebrities, even victors, he would determine if everything was suitable for his precious granddaughter. It was great back then, but what good does it do me now?

Here I am, on the highest floor of the HQ for Hunger Games development, getting updated on all of the final developments for this year's Hunger Games. In addition, I am surrounded by windows that give a clear view to the devastating drop directly outside. Brilliant.

The way I cope is simply refusing to glance out the windows. That means my focus is entirely put somewhere else, and to my dismay, it's the reason I'm in this building. All of this information, it's so alien to me. I'm the one that is overseeing the final touches to the Hunger Games.

I sit at the end of the long marble table, leaning back in my chair with a filthy expression on my face. My cheek rests in the palm of my hand, as I grudgingly listen to what the Head Gamemaker has to tell me. I'm not exactly trying to hide my disinterest for what he has to say, but how can I help it?! Am I meant to act all excited for the method of killing off all these kids? I have to ask the question, how my Grandfather did this for all these years.

"So you see, we have removed this section of the arena, since the last time we checked in with your Grandfather, Madame President. He wasn't so big on that," Head Gamemaker Configurous Anera informs me. I stare blankly at the hologram that shines from the centre of the table. I watch as this random section of the arena rotates in the air, showing me all of the components it would have held.

"Okay, why was that?" I ask, trying not to sound too bored. For all they know, I could still be depressed about President Snow's current state, but if I sound bored as well, it looks a bit fishy.

"He believed it would be too much of a safe area for the tributes, as if it would give them an area to rest without fear of death," he reports.

"That sounds terrible," I say through gritted teeth. Spite fills my veins, and an urge to call off this conference tickles my temptation. But I have to push through.

"We want danger, we want death, that was good thinking on his behalf," I continue, voice sounding horribly monotone. Luckily for me, Configurous appears to absorbed in his presentation to notice.

"Well, we can tell you have a similar eye! I have no doubts you will help with some of the most successful games in history Madame President," Configurous exclaims. I'm not even over exaggerating when I say I feel as if I'm going to be sick. I feel so cruel, so ruthless, I hate it. I don't want to be a President like this. That's when common sense comes knocking in the back of my mind. What was I told? What did I already know? The key to continuing the Snow Reign. That key is keeping the Capitol happy, and the only way to do that, is to give them what they want. The Hunger Games.

They wouldn't back a leader that wants to take the Hunger Games away. I hate that it's the truth, but there isn't an alternative. I need to show authority, and I need to show that I am the powerful, independent woman that I am.

"I believe all we have to show you now are our newest developments in the muttation field," Configurous continues. Ugh, I always hated the Mutts. I understand the whole pitting up the District's tributes up against one another to enforce our authority, and punish them for the rebellion thing, but the mutts are us killing the tributes. The point is for the tributes to kill one another as punishment for allying together against us. I could argue that the tributes don't have to feel the guilt of killing another tribute if the mutt does it for them, but some of the most painful deaths in the history of the Hunger Games was a result of muttations. Regardless, both things are completely inhumane, but it is still a bit of a cop out.

"Sure, show me what you've got," I say as enthusiastically as I can. Configurous smiles, stroking his long white beard.

"With pleasure," he responds, tapping the screen of his tablet. As a result, the hologram morphs into a series of different muttations, all with different lethality's, severities, and countless ranging attributes. Most seem fatal and dangerous as usual, and as much as I hate to admit it, I am kind of fascinated. I may hate the Hunger Games, but I cannot deny that the privilege of getting to know everything before the games start, kind of makes me enticed to see how it plays out. I have to admit, they put so much effort into such a sickening competition.

One thing that I do notice, is that not all the mutts are hostile. Some could be beneficial to the tributes in certain ways, such as food.

"President Snow handpicked the majority of these, however we added in a couple more as an extra surprise. We believed we had developed knowledge of the type of muttations your Grandfather likes, so we did want to please him. We do hope they suffice," Configurous explains. If I had it my way, I wouldn't have any of these mutts. As I said, I despise the mutts. But, even though I am the President, I don't get it my way. Not until I can grip the nation with my power.

"Don't worry, they are fine," I almost snap at him, wanting to get the meeting over with. Configurous blinks in surprise, looking quite taken aback. He opens his mouth, appearing as if he is going to to say something else, before he quickly shuts it and smiles sheepishly at me. Could he be any more spineless?

"Anything else Head Gamemaker Anera?" I ask, folding my arms, and leaning back.

"Uh, no actually Madame President, that covers it," he informs me. I nod in response, before gradually getting up.

"Very good job, I hope this year's Hunger Games live up to the hype that they are receiving," I lie, hoping that they actually die down in popularity. It won't happen though. It never happens.

"Thank you so much for your time President Snow," he exclaims, bowing as I exit the room. The words cause me to shudder, the mere mention of my name as President Snow causing me to feel resent beyond belief. Once I exit the room, Hollander joins me as I walk down the hallway towards the elevator.

"Thank god that's over," I mutter, as Hollander sorts through some papers. I turn to her, watching as she grudgingly searches for some document.

"Is the limousine ready?" I ask. Hollander glances up at me, stopping what she is doing.

"President Sno-"

"Hold on. Before you continue, you better refer to me as Celestia. I'll be damned before I allow myself to be called President Snow even in private," I instruct her.

"Okay. . . Celestia, well, we aren't finished here yet." I almost completely freeze at her words.

"I was told that all I needed to do was attend that meeting. What else could I possibly need to do?" I say softly, trying to keep my cool.

"Oh goodness, they must have forgot to inform you. Historically Celestia, your Grandfather would have a meeting with the most recent Victor on the day prior to the Reaping, to keep an eye on how they are coping, as well as ready them for their future mentor role," Hollander informs me. I feel my stomach drop instantly.

"You mean. . . I have to have a meeting, with Ryus Griftyte?" I say in alarm.

"I'll direct you to him Celestia," she responds, guiding me with a light touch.

"No, I don't think you understand Hollander, I can't have a conversation with him, I'll probably kill him myself!" I exclaim. Hollander raises an eyebrow in concern, however I cannot find myself willing enough to explain to her my hate for District 2's tributes, more specifically the brutally cocky and arrogant ones such as Ryus. Surely, she can cancel this meeting, or someone else can speak to him, such as Configurous. It's as if she reads my mind with what she says next.

"I'm sorry Celestia, we can't cancel this meeting, it's customary. Plus, he came all the way from District 2 to speak with you today. The first ever tribute interview with the new President," she tries to motivate me.

"Come on, District 2 isn't that far away from here. What does it matter if one tribute isn't spoken to?" I try to reason.

"Please, Celestia," Hollander looks at me pained, with a pleading tone shaking in her strained voice. She holds together her hands as she begs, causing me to look at the ground guilt ridden.

"Fine, I'll speak with him. But it must be quick," I command sternly. Hollander cannot help but appear relieved, as the elevator doors close with a ding. The elevator ride is silent, mainly due to my bitterness, but regardless I have no enthusiasm to talk. I feel stressed, weary, it's as if I have no control over my life anymore. People organizing meetings for me, dictating how I spend my day. I never wanted to be President, but I could her have predicted it would be this bad.

I feel dread as the elevator slows to a halt, opening on to a new floor. Thankfully for me it isn't a high floor, so when I look out the window, I see a vibrant green lawn, and surprisingly relieving concrete footpaths. Unfortunately, it does little to calm me down.

"It's the last door, directly at the end of the hallway Celestia. It can be quick, basically just get to know Ryus. You will have to get to know every Victor from now on," Hollander says softly. I eye down the dark mahogany doors, breathing deeply as I emotionally push myself on. I have to do this.

"Have the limousine ready, I don't want to have to spend another minute here after this," I utter calmly, contrasting greatly to how I really feel. Before Hollander can reply, I begin to stride down the hallway, to guards joining me a few feet behind. I reach the doors, grabbing the cool, sleek handle and taking a deep breath.

"Madame President, we can open it for you if-"

"No! I won't have people do little petty deeds for me. I'm capable of doing it myself," I cry out, cutting off the voice from behind me. With that, I pull the doors toward me, opening a large entrance that gives me a sight of the room. It's very much similar to the room I spent my previous meeting in, except this time it's much smaller. The table itself is about the size of a dining room table, and to my dismay, seats the revolting Victor himself, Ryus.

He leans back against his seat, legs propped up on the table. His large frame has his arms rested behind his head, but my attention is drawn directly to his smug little head. His skin is reasonably tanned, with his eyes a brown so dark they could be considered black. My eyes raise to his tousled hair, shaved around the sides but grown up the top, different from his arena appearance which was a fully shaved head. It's auburn colour is strange to the eye, when considering he is from District 2. Any normal person would instantly presume him to be from District 10.

However, he has one identifiable District 2 trait, that really grinds my gears. His arrogant little smirk, that makes him look as if he runs the entire damn nation. The jokes on him though, because I run the nation.

I stop, glaring at him with my hands on my hips. Normally, I would be trying to act polite and sensible. But already, with his body language and attitude, he has pissed me off beyond belief. He opens his arms wide, grinning at me smugly.

"Madame President, how nice of you to join me," he smirks. He eyes me up and down, before raising an eyebrow.

"Well, got to say I'm impressed. I mean, I've only ever seen you on screen for these past couple of months, but damn you are hot," he exclaims. I'm tempted to throw up. He has already disrespected me and I just entered the room.

"Get your feet off of the table, now!" I snap, causing his eyes to open wide. He likely wasn't expecting such feistiness.

"You're the President," he says with a shrug, taking his feet down and putting his legs under the table.

"I didn't come into this interview with very high expectations. Seems I was correct in doing so, with such piggish attitude," I sneer, sitting down in the seat directly across from him.

"I'm glad you know where I stand," he responds, looking amused. I shake my head.

"Revolting," I mutter. This causes Ryus to laugh.

"That may be the case, but it won me the Hunger Games, so obviously, I'm doing something right," he challenges me.

"Oh really? Well that attitude has got to stop. Now," I hiss at him. For the first time since I've entered this room, Ryus appears genuinely surprised.

"Huh?" He says blankly.

"It may not have occurred to you in your hollow head, but the journey doesn't end with winning. You're a mentor now, and you're going to influence your tributes," I inform him. He looks at me silently, leaning back with interest.

"So your point is. . ." He trails off, waiting for an answer.

"You may have won, but you and your second most recent Victor, Cato, are disgustingly pig-headed people. Well, Cato was, but I don't know if you noticed, but he has changed," I say flatly.

"I don't know how you turned out the way you are, but you make your entire District look horrific in terms of behavior. You're going to make a change, and you're going to make the future District 2 generations a little more humble, or I swear to god I will make District 2's life a living hell in the arena," I finish off, slamming my fist on the table. Ryus looks gob smacked, as he fails to shoot back with a witty remark.

"Make me want to like District 2, because I'm nothing like my Grandfather. But I do share one thing in common, I do not have a gentle heart." It's this comment that sounds the most threatening of all, it sounds cold, dark, powerful. It's this that appears to get through to Ryus, that makes him realize that I am not weak.

He stands up with a blank face, basically unreadable.

"I think we're done here. I guess I'll see you in the future. . . Madame President," he says softly. I'm completely shocked by the drastic attitude change, but I refuse to let that show. I make sure my expression retains its coldness. He doesn't break eye contact as he walks backwards out of the room, with our vision only cut off by a wall.

"Hey, come back here!" One of the guards calls out.

"No. Leave him, I got my point across," I cut the guard off. I cannot help but smirk maliciously, knowing that I completely destroyed his expectations. I don't think there has ever been another moment, that I have felt more like my Grandfather. I truly am, President Snow.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **So I felt like we were due an update, so now I bring one final prologue chapter to this story. You can tell, Celestia is really trying to hang onto her own identity, but she cannot help her inner Snow flaring up. Anyways, I would love to hear what you think.**

 **Submissions have halted a bit, but I still need plenty more! There are many spots left, and at this rate most submissions are guaranteed, so please don't be afraid to submit! Next chapter should be the tribute list, so hopefully I get enough submissions to make that possible!**

 **I know some people don't like it, but I think I'm going to do each District's Reaping, which I will try to get done as quickly as possible. Keep an eye on my profile, because I may give an update stating that I am allowing two submissions per author. It isn't definite yet, depending on the amount of submissions I begin to get. But if I did it, there would be a rule that I wouldn't accept two author's tributes from the same District. They can't have nay affiliation with another tribute owned by the author.**

 **Hope to see some great submissions so we can get this story moving!**


	4. District 1: Luster and Glacier

**Reaping I**

* * *

 _Belligerent : /_ bəˈlɪdʒ(ə)r(ə)nt/

(be-lidge-er-ent)

hostile and aggressive.

 _"the mood at the meeting was belligerent"_

* * *

 **Luster Valor**

 **~17~**

 **District 1**

This is a special day. It's very unique, one that happens once a year, just like my birthday. It's one particular day I've waited for, for years in counting. I always dreamt that when it arrived, I would be ecstatic, dancing all over the place all giddy with excitement. I would have hoped to have leapt from my bed, prancing down the halls with such energy that I could take on the whole of the academy.

I couldn't be more wrong. Instead of this preferable state which I am physically incapable of bringing myself to achieve, I am in reality, half dead to the world, eyes groggy with slumber, with long golden hair suffocating me to death, and with an unflattering amount of drool dribbling from my full parted lips. Wow, how breathtaking I must look. Breathtakingly appalling that is.

However, what's that matter when I am alone in my comfortable, silky sheets? To me, not very much. What I am more concerned about, is motivating myself to get up and ready myself for this historical day. The day that Luster Valor will be known nationwide.

Despite my weary state, I cannot help but crack a slight grin at the thought, producing a slight giggle with the enticing opportunity. Again, I've waited so long for this.

After roughly five minutes, I conclude that it is time to finally get out of bed. I cannot help but groan as I push myself up, murmuring my distaste of leaving my cozy bed. I flick my hair out of my face, giving the small portion of light that enters my room the ability to hit my eyes.

"Too bright," I groan, shielding my face from the light. That's kind of embarrassing, the curtains aren't even drawn yet. I manage to drag my legs off of the bed, giving me the ability to sit up. My feet touch the soft shaggy carpet, and I stretch my back, hearing a few cracks as I do so.

I stumble over to the bathroom, where I strip out of my light bed clothing, and feel the cool air conditioned breeze hit my naked body. It gives me goosebumps, but it's refreshing compared to the unbelievably scorching weather outside. It is almost always so hot in District 1.

Regardless, I turn the shower on, causing warm pleasant water to run. I step in, letting the warmth envelop me. I make it my priority to wash my hair, as that is one of the most important things to me, shortly after moving on to cleaning the rest of my body. Honestly, it's not as if I need a shower. I take so many a day to begin with, I'm basically the cleanest person there is. However, I needed a method of making myself more alert, and what better way than to open up with a hot refreshing shower?

After a few minutes, I turn the water off, stepping out and allowing myself to drip dry for a moment, with my eyes closed and the enjoyment of my steamy hot body to cool against the icy air conditioned breeze.

As a District 1 citizen, I have the option of either spending the last available minutes of the Reaping Day to train, practice my combative skills, attempt to perfect anything I may have been mastering. Of course, why would I need to do that? It's not as if I'm trying to impress the trainers.

Usually, District 1's head academy trainers are the ones that determine the volunteers. They choose who gets to volunteer out of all the eighteen year-olds, but there is the rare occasion that none are deemed worthy enough, and the trainers simply don't select a volunteer.

Those are always interesting years, because almost always when this happens, younger but incredibly skilled students have the opportunity to volunteer. It just so happens that this is one of those years, and I am fortunate enough to have the opportunity to volunteer.

I guess I kind of left out the part about threatening the life of everyone that was considering volunteering. In reality, the years that the trainers leave it open, it's anyone's game to volunteer if they truly desire to. Oh, I definitely desire to.

In short, I feel as if I am skilled enough in my use of weapons to easily compete against the most brutal of tributes. I am by no means the casual prissy District 1 girl that gets by in the Hunger Games by flaunting her ridiculously good looks. I may have those looks, but I certainly don't need them. Not anymore.

After drying myself, and blow drying my luscious locks, I make my way over towards my bedroom closet, searching for something suitable to wear. Here, is a decision that is critical in cementing my popularity with the Capitol. I need to choose something sexy, provocative, absolutely stunning in order to show off my body. Normally, I would be focusing on dressing for the boys of the District, drawing all their interest towards me to the dismay of the jealous girls, and even some of the boys themselves. It's quite ironic really, but incredibly satisfying.

Back when I was younger, I was quite the opposite of appealing. Chubby, awkward, prone to cry at the smallest of things. What this earned me was a nickname which to this day I have buried in the most darkest stages of my history, that nickname being 'Libby Luster'. So to think, that the boys that had once been bullying me and teasing me for my portly physique, it is undeniably amusing that they can't even control their hard-on's around me.

Regardless, I've got all of them eating off the palm of my hand. I don't need to dress sexy for them anymore, they _know_ I'm sexy. But the people that don't know yet, are the Capitol. So what better opportunity to make my impact, then when I volunteer for the Hunger Games?

I choose a very skimpy top that struggles to hold in my cleavage, a very bright white in color. I choose to contrast it with a black skirt, that is raised a little too high for any normal girl. I end up selecting a black pair of wedged heels, that cause me to appear a tad taller than I really am.

Perfect. I cannot help but grin smugly at myself in the mirror. Time to do this.

When I exit my room, I make my way down the seemingly endless stairs, practically gliding down as my hand runs gracefully down the banister. When I reach the bottom, I find myself in our large Entrance Hall, with the chandelier swinging ever so softly. I walk towards the Dining Room, making it dreadfully obvious with the loud _clops_ my shoes cause to echo throughout the Manor. I enter the room, not even making eye contact with my mother, Andromeda Valor, who refuses to look up. She silently reads a catalogue about the recent breakthrough of Gemstone Hybrids.

"Do you know what this stuff means for your father and I?" my mother asks in a monotone voice. I cross my arms, blinking lazily as I repress the urge to roll my eyes.

"What? You'll get richer than you already are? Shocker," I reply, sounding riddled with boredom.

"You know, you could act a little more excited for us," she says disapprovingly.

"You know, you could act a little more excited for me! I'm volunteering today mom, when I get back you won't ever have to speak to me again," I hiss at her. I've never gotten along with my parents before, they've never shown love or approval of me, I don't even know what it's like to have caring parents.

They hate me because I'm a disappointment, fat, ugly, a victim. And then I change, I completely change who I am, and they still hate me because I'm beautiful, strong, successful. Nothing I do pleases them, and why? Because my mother is a selfish bitch, who looks out only for her own gain, and my father, Mayor Glisten Valor is a heartless man who focuses on his economic gain and build on power. I know I'm not perfect, but I know I'm right when I say my parents truly are, horrible people.

My case is backed up when my mother finally raises her eyes to examine me, expression refusing to shift at what she sees. It doesn't need to though, because she expresses it vocally.

"What are you going to the Reaping as? A whore? A slut? You sicken me," she replies coldly. Normally this would offend any other daughter, however I'm so used to it now that all I bring myself to do is laugh. My laugh is snarky, sarcastic, but I truly do mean it. I find it amusing that my mother despises the fact that I can use my body, when she did the same thing to seduce my father. I've never met someone so hypocritical.

"Yeah, I am, and it's going to help me get through the Capitol, and the Hunger Games in one solid piece. They wouldn't want their gorgeous District 1 tribute to have any of her stunning looks damaged," I point out.

"Whatever, I'm just ecstatic that we are legally getting rid of you," my mother smiles, humming a laugh directly after.

"Well, maybe _you_ will," I admit. She raises her eyebrow in question.

"And you're saying your father won't? I'm pretty sure he couldn't care less if you came out dead or alive, _sweetie_ ," she remarks, sounding venomous with her final word.

"That may be true, but who's to say he wouldn't be a little impressed that his daughter that 'would never amount to nothing', volunteered for the Hunger Games?" I shoot back at her.

"So are you saying that your father doesn't even know?" she asks.

"Yeah exactly. That self centered son of a bitch doesn't have the audacity to pay any attention to his only daughter. So let's see how he likes it when she volunteers," I sneer at her. I'm a little taken aback when she doesn't do so much as blink, upon hearing what I say. All she does is sigh, as she folds the catalogue and places it on the table. She leans back, propping one leg over the other as she tilts her head at me.

"What is it that you are hoping to gain from this Luster? You've never been that vocal about volunteering up until two weeks ago," she says softly. I scrunch up my face in anger, gritting my teeth as I think of what to say back.

"Glory," I reply. This causes her to chuckle with amusement, as she stares avidly at my face.

"No, it's not. Glory is not what you are wanting from this," she leers at me. This fills me with anger, a desire to hurt my mother with everything I've got. I struggle to prevent the rage from projecting out of me, which results in something quite different. I slam one of the knives intended for breakfast into the dark mahogany table. As I do this, I stare darkly at my mother, who looks back with something I've never seen from her before. Fear, surprise, wide eyes that legitimately hold signs of shock. Her mouth is drawn slightly open, as she struggles to fathom my action.

"What I want from this, is none of your fucking business. I'll probably never see you again after this altercation, because I'll either be dead, or I'll never be visiting home when I have my own in the Victor's Village. But I'm just going to let you know, you have been a horrid mother. The worst I've ever met. I am not glad to have the displeasure of knowing you. So, when you wonder what I want, you reflect on that." Words have never sounded so dark, so bitter, so toxic coming from my mouth.

However, I have never felt so satisfied saying something to someone ever. After the words leave my lips, I take a couple of seconds to glare at my mother for one last time, reading the shock, and even hurt in her eyes. Without another word, I turn around and leave the Dining Room, heading towards the Town Square.

Good Riddance.

* * *

 _Honor : /_ ˈɒnə/

(on-or)

high respect; great esteem.

 _"his portrait hangs in the place of honour"_

* * *

 **Glacier Fritz**

 **~18~**

 **District 1**

I cannot help but notice the fatigue that my body holds, as I grudgingly attempt to rise from my bed. Rubbing my eyes does little to help wake them up, and in fact makes my vision foggy and fractured. I have to blink a few times until my standard vision is back. Usually, I'm not this tired upon waking up. I get up at a suitable time in the morning, and relatively early at night as I am usually worn from the days training. This allows me to wake up again with a refreshed state of mind and an energetic body.

Unfortunately, I broke my strict sleeping schedule last night, as I was up late at the Volunteer Ceremony. My parents and I were in the front row seats at the academy, waiting upon the announcement of who the two volunteers would be. First, they mentioned the girls situation, as they decided not to choose any specific 18 year old to volunteer this year.

I've heard numerous rumors that it would be Luster Valor, the Mayor's 17 year old daughter that will be volunteering instead. Personally, it wouldn't surprise me. Someone as beautiful and dangerous as her, she would definitely be a formidable tribute. But who would be joining her this year? That was the major question. I was frightened that they weren't going to select a volunteer at all this year, as they hadn't for the girls.

However, they read out the name of the male that would volunteer for this year's Hunger Games. It wasn't just any eighteen year-old, it was actually me. After all of these years training for this honorable role, I finally have been given the opportunity to fight in the Hunger Games!

Even now, when I am finally conscious and the day has arrived, it still doesn't feel real to me. It's like an illusion, a fairytale, I never could have hoped to have been this lucky. So despite my tired state of mind, I almost leap out of my bed with excitement, racing into the shower to have a quick but thorough shower.

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the blissful warm water pummel my body. It feels just like the summer rain that we have been experiencing for the past month or two. It's relaxing, as well as refreshing.

Usually I'm quick in the shower, but I remind myself to enjoy it, and to relax. I've put in hard work all day, every day, from the age of 10. That's roughly 8 years of my life that I have been flat out with training, to gain the privilege and honor of becoming District 1's tribute.

Now that I have reached this milestone, I can surely push myself to enjoy a simple shower, one that I have rightfully earned. Even though I attempt to force myself to enjoy it, I cannot help but worry that we may run out of hot water for the rest of my family. It's not _all_ about me, nothing is. I don't care if I earned this shower, if that means we run out of hot water for my parents, then I don't want it.

I shut off the water, stepping out of the shower to dry myself. Once I have done so, I simply slip on the suit my loving mother laid out for me to wear. It means a lot to me, seeing as it's quite expensive in terms of material. Despite our residence of District 1, my parents have always been rather frugal, and have never been the type to waste expenses on extreme extravagances.

So the fact that my mother has bought this silky white shirt, and these flawless grey pants, leads me to truly appreciate the situation. I accompany the clothing with real black leather shoes, similar to the boots I would normally wear. Last of all, I splash some powerful cologne on my neck, which happens to be a rare and exotic fragrance exclusively from the Capitol. I almost laugh when I recount on the fact that our family is frugal compared to most others of the District. With lavish items such as that, one could imagine how others here are holding up, such as the Valor family.

Luster Valor is one lucky girl.

I shake any ounce of jealous thoughts that I have from my mind, reminding myself that I don't need any of that luxury. The luxuries that I have means something to me, it's special, not just an everyday run of the mill new TV model, or a new king sized bed with a mattress so comfortable I would never want to leave it.

Sometimes, I never realize just how wealthy my family really is. Of course being in the upper class has its perks, but I rarely notice it when I don't aim to show off and flaunt my riches. My parents unlike some, were decent enough to teach me how to be a humble human being.

When I glance out of the clear pristine window, I cannot help but smile proudly at the increased amount of activity outside. The street below is incredibly busy, with people filing out onto the road from everywhere, young kids running around and chasing each other with excitement, parents deep in conversations with bright and glowering faces. It makes me happy to see how well our District has embraced the honor of the Hunger Games. They truly do support those of us that dedicate all of our time and effort to bringing glory to this District.

As I watch them, it occurs to me that most would have no idea it is me that is Volunteering. For the six months prior to the Reaping, the District announces the twenty elite teens from each of the male and female sections, meaning that they would be able to guess from 40 people. The people that attended the ceremony last night would know, but most obviously wouldn't have.

I read my own descriptive report that they gave me when the nominees were announced. I was labeled as the elitist, with a hungry taste for victory and glory for District 1. I'm pretty sure at the time I was ranked at number three for likeliness of being chosen, but I guess they were wrong. I was number one.

I'm about to turn away from the window, when a distant flash of golden hair catches my eye. That's common for District 1 as the population mostly has golden hair, but it's not every day that I look outside to see someone leaving the Mayor's Manor. I focus on who it is, distinguishing her features to tell me that it is Luster that has left her home.

I tilt my head as I watch her, taking note of how much she appears to be fuming. She is really pissed off, and I mean _really_ pissed off. She storms down the small hill leading up to her home, barging through families and younger kids. People begin to notice her, stepping out of the way before she reaches them. A few boys continue to watch her as she walks off, and I can see why. The way she is dressed isn't what I would deem appropriate, in fact it's extremely provocative, no doubt in order to catch the Capitol's eye if she happens to get Reaped, or if she volunteers.

I shake my head sadly, disapproving of what she is doing. The way she is dressing, is undeniably smart of course, but it would be nice if she could respect herself a little more. From what I've heard she is actually not bad in the academy, so why would she need to enforce her. . . physical attributes, as well?

Even though I don't necessarily want to, I cannot help but continue to watch her as she becomes more distant.

' _No. Stop Glacier. If she is volunteering, this is already succumbing to weakness. This is not what you're about.'_

I shake my head rapidly, dragging myself away from the window and breathing slowly. I shift my thoughts away, picturing myself in the training room of the Academy.

"Focus, you're about to enter the Hunger Games," I mumble to myself. I need to get myself into the proper state of mind, so I am absolutely ready for this. Before I can do such a thing however, my concentration is completely drawn to a voice that abruptly calls me from downstairs.

"Glacier dear, we need to leave soon!" My eyes snap open upon hearing my mother's voice. I grab the cool ceramic door knob, twisting it and drawing the door open with mild excitement. I sensibly make my way down the stairs, trying to not let my excitement explode and make myself go hyper. I find myself making my way towards the living room, spotting the two of my parents sitting comfortably and alert on the sofa. My mother, Prada Fritz tries to stifle the tears that escape her eyes, as she beams proudly when I enter the room. My father, Klein Fritz wraps an arm around my mother, holding her tightly with utmost compassion.

"Mom, there is no need to cry," I chuckle softly. She nods her head, sniffling as she laughs as well.

"I know, it's just so emotional. The day has finally come," she exclaims with a croaky voice. She rises up, embracing me in a motherly hug. I hug her back, smelling her usual scent. I never want to forget her scent, in fact I hope I never have to try to remember it. We part ways, as she squeezes my hand lightly.

"Are you wearing that cologne?" she asks with a smile.

"Of course," I smile back. My father gets up next, standing beside my mother.

"Glacier, I have waited for this day since the moment you were born. I never had the chance to volunteer when I was eligible, but you have already stepped up to bring honor to this family. You've made me proud son," he smiles shakily, before hugging me as well. His hug is strong, firm, it feels as if I'm hugging a bear. When he releases me, I stand up straight, matching him in height and giving him a solid hand shake.

"Now I know you will be joining the other Careers, but you need to listen carefully," he informs me, tone sounding much more serious.

"I still don't agree with our three District's adopting the name that the outer District's came up with for us," I mutter. My father snaps his fingers, snapping my attention back to him.

"Stay focused, this is important Glacier," he says, voice sounding urgent.

"Okay, yes dad," I respond, showing him that he holds my attention.

"Never, trust your alliance. There have been numerous occasions when the Career's have backstabbed members of their alliance early. It's even been in their sleep before," he informs me with concern. I nod, understanding him completely.

"I won't completely trust them," I reply. I'm not too concerned about what he said though, they probably did that a lot in early games, but they wouldn't do that nowadays. The Careers wouldn't be so cowardly, they would be more honorable than that.

"Good," he sighs in relief. I hold back the temptation to shake my head in amusement, my dad would be pretty nervous, I won't just tell him I learnt all I need to know in the Academy. I'll let him think he is being helpful, it'll be easier on him.

"And one other thing, try and keep your District partner close," he suggests. I'm slightly surprised, this one is new to me.

"Why?" I ask.

"You need someone you can trust, and usually your District blood is the most trustworthy," he informs me. I find myself struggling to imagine getting close to Luster, she seems as hostile as you can get.

"Alright then," I assure him.

"Well, I think we should leave now, we wouldn't want to be late for your volunteering," my mother speaks up. I glance at the platinum clock on our wall, noting that it is almost time for it to begin.

"Well, here we go," I breathe deeply. Time to show them what District 1 is capable of.

* * *

 **Luster Valor**

 **~17~**

 **District 1**

"What the fuck?!" I cry out with outrage. Everybody seems to be too busy to notice that I just screamed out a curse word, but to my amusement a young twelve year-old girl in front of me looks up at my face in horror. I myself stare ahead in horror, seeing the incredibly long line ahead of me.

"Ugh," I groan, crossing my arms and tapping my foot on the ground impatiently. I swear it gets longer every year, and this year I'm in the very worst mood I've been in during a Reaping, all because of my despicable mother.

Judging from how many people are in the line, I'm assuming now that I'll have to wait here a while, despite the fairly quick rate that they are signing people in. I'm ready to stand in this line with a completely bitter sense of mind, before I briefly remember the young girls fear of me a moment prior. I'm the Mayor's daughter, people are afraid of me, which means I can use this to my advantage.

I step out of the line, before stalking my way towards the front, making sure to sway my hips with a look of flirtatiousness on my face. As I pass people, I hear some of the girls discussing with one another as to what I may be doing, while I here a few murmurs and witty remarks about my body that some of the boys make. Yeah that's right, adore the body of 'Libby Luster'.

It's a matter of moments before I have made my way to the front, where thankfully there is a boy waiting for his opportunity to come forward. Perfect, I don't have to fight that hard to get in front.

"Hey there! Do you mind if I just step in here?" I ask innocently, sticking my chest out. The boy instantly begins to sweat, trying to retain eye contact which I can tell he is struggling to do. He smiles nervously, scratching the back of his head before stepping back into the girl behind him and motioning for me to cut in.

"Be my guest," he answers.

"Owww," the girl behind him complains, as he treads on her feet. She looks at him with anger filling her eyes, before she glances at me. That anger turns to venom in a matter of seconds.

"Uhh, what do you think you're doing Luster? You can't just cut in like that," she hisses. I squint my eyes, smirking at her.

"Actually I didn't, this kind gentlemen allowed me to go in front of him," I reply, my voice sounding dangerously sweet.

"You bitch, that's not fair!" She cries out grimacing at me.

"Sure it is, you had the same opportunity. The difference is that I took that opportunity," I snarkily reply.

"Lapis! You can't let her do that!" the girl spits at the boy, who I presume to be named Lapis.

"Calm down Lazuli, it's only one spot in the line," he responds. Lazuli begins to grit her teeth.

"Excuse me! Peacekeeper!" She calls out, waving towards a Peacekeeper. The man strides over, heavy gun strapped by his side.

"What?" He asks gruffly. Lazuli points at me accusingly.

"She pushed in," she informs the Peacekeeper. I look up at the Peacekeeper, just as he glances at me. Unluckily for Lazuli, I'm already ready. I make sure that I am showing as much skin as possible, with a suggestive amount of cleavage showing. His eyes widen, with his mouth dropping slightly.

"Young lady, I think it's your turn," the man informs me, adding a wink onto the end. I hold the urge to vomit, and glance back at Lazuli. She bares her teeth at me, while I smirk at her as I am walking off with swaying hips. The Peacekeeper attempts to follow, but he is stopped by his duty to monitor that line.

 _'Sick fuck, I'm only seventeen.'_

I make my way to the desk that has been set up in front of the entrance to where the teens stand as the Reaping occurs. Another Peacekeeper, this time a woman, sits behind a desktop. I don't think she could look anymore bored.

"Excuse me," I attempt to get her attention. She looks at me lazily, sighing as she puts forward a cube shaped device.

"Stick your index finger in the hole shown at the front," she tells me. I've done this a million times. . . well more like seven now, but still enough times to know how to do so without her telling me. I do what she says, hearing a piercing ding which is followed by a sudden prick on my finger. I wait for her to read the information that comes up on the device.

"Luster Valor, Mayor Valor's daughter correct?" The woman asks.

"Yes," I reply bitterly. I don't think the Peacekeeper cares enough to pay attention, as a moment later she is already telling me to move along. I leave the woman, my eyes searching for the seventeen year-old section. It's always to the far right, so I find my way there quickly enough.

It's perhaps a twenty minute wait, until finally it appears that everyone has been sorted into their allocated sections. A hush begins to fall over the crowd of parents and teens alike, as all of the living Victor's file onto the stage. This earns heavy applause, as everyone pays their respects to the people that went into the games for us, and managed to come back. A few familiar faces are there, Cashmere and Gloss Ress, the famous sibling Victors, Glint Mayarch, she was the Victor of the 73rd Hunger Games, Dubai Saud, he was the Victor of the 76th Hunger Games, and our most recent Victor, Gucc Setterfield, he won the 78th Hunger Games.

But perhaps the most familiar face of all, is the person that earns the biggest applause, and is the person that walks onto the stage now. Glisten Valor, my father. He smiles warmly at the crowd, as they go absolutely nuts for him. Why must they love my father so much? Do they not realise how truly selfish and heartless he is? How little he cares for his own daughter?

As he speaks into the microphone, I cannot help but have my spite build up inside of me. I'm ready to show this bastard who I really am, that I am _his_ daughter, and that I'm ready to show him up.

He speaks of the Rebellion, the years of peace and prosperity that were lost, and the resulting Hunger Games. It's the same every year, and it's not the part I really care about. My god is it a grueling process.

He finally gets onto the topic of District 1, how we began the Hunger Games, how we have performed ever since, and the recent years where we have experienced more glory than ever. I cannot help but yawn, due to how many times I've had to listen to this speech.

"Now of course, we are all here for a reason. Every year on this day, we gather to honor the Annual event of the Hunger Games, where we select two representatives from our District, our two tributes that participate in the Hunger Games!" He calls this out with excitement, causing a thundering cheer.

"We have waited long enough, so let's introduce our wonderful Escort, Arizel Lynehart!" Mayor Valor exclaims, motioning towards our extravagant and annoyingly excited Escort. Regardless, she still earns an ear-splitting round of applause.

"Good afternoon District 1! I am so excited to be back here, and I cannot wait to get this enticing situation going!" She squeals, all giddy from the reception she receives.

"I'm sure whoever rises up to receive the status of District 1's tributes of the 80th Annual Hunger Games will once again gain another victory! So let's find out who it will be!" People whistle and scream as she walks over to the Male bowl. Changing things up this year I presume. This should be interesting, I don't actually know who is volunteering for the boys.

Arizel reaches the glass bowl, before dipping her hand inside and clutching onto a slip of paper. She brings it up slowly, before making a show of dropping it 'accidentally'. The crowd, who had been holding their breath, laugh in reaction to that and further boost her extroverted confidence.

Eventually, Arizel finally settles on a slip of paper, slowly lifting it out of the bowl and neatly unfolding it. She brings her mouth closer to the microphone, as she clears her throats and reads the text in the paper to herself. Everyone holds their breath as she prepares to announce the boy's name.

"Lann Ister." The wind can be heard as people wait for something to happen. Will someone volunteer, or will Lann have to make his way up to the stage. I see some of the crowd shifting around at the fifteen year-old section, presumably making a path for Lann. Surely I won't be volunteering alongside a fifteen year-old? Thankfully, a second later someone speaks up.

"I volunteer for him!" The voice is coming from my right, meaning it was an eighteen year-old.

"Oh goody! A volunteer!" Arizel exclaims. I watch the stairs, eventually seeing the boy that volunteered. I feel relieved instantly, as this boy is much more suitable. He is tall, definitely over six foot, which is accompanied by a lean athletic build. I am taken slightly by surprise by how non-brutish he looks. He truly appears to be neat and tidy, with flawless skin, neat golden blonde hair that has been combed back, accompanied by dark green eyes, almost appearing hazel in color. His jaw is sharp and structured, which gives a pearly white grin.

He looks so. . . handsome, and I kind of like it. He appears vaguely familiar, probably because he was one of the most prominent students at the academy. Regardless, I am in luck for the year that I volunteer.

* * *

 **Glacier Fritz**

 **~18~**

 **District 1**

The walk up the stairs is all but daunting. It's exciting mostly, and it makes me proud to do so. I glance out over the crowd, seeing that everyone's eyes are on me. That is slightly dizzying, never have I had that much attention focused on me before. Yet here I am, with everyone in the District looking at me as I make my way up to claim the honor of volunteering.

Most of them would have no idea who I am, unless they remembered me from the list of nominees. By appearance though, that may be a stretch. Regardless, they are about to find out who I am. When I reach the top of the stairs, on the long flat surface of the stage, I make my way across with a toothy and confident grin. I wave out to the audience as, they cheer and whistle for me. Many whispers to each other excitedly, as they glance up at me with attentive interest.

"My goodness it appears we have quite the handsome young devil who has volunteered today!" Arizel calls out. As I make my way over to the center of the stage, I remember that I must show my manners. Of course Arizel is a lady of class, being from the Capitol and all, so I should immediately show her the respect that all women deserve.

When I reach Arizel's side, I immediately bow, gracefully taking her hand and giving it a quick peck. Many women in the crowd gasp, with a few 'oh my's' and 'aww's' scattered here and there. I raise my upper body to stand straight again, glancing warmly at Arizel. She looks completely taken aback, her hand covers her mouth and heavy blushing is visible underneath the makeup caked onto her face. She begins to fan her face, looking out at the crowd with a flustered expression.

"Oh wow, it appears he is quite the gentlemen as well!" She giggles, flashing me a smile.

"What is your name handsome?" She continues.

"I'm Glacier Fritz, and I am volunteering to bring glory to my District!" I call out confidently. This earns a roar of applause, which inflates my desire to do my District well.

"Well, Glacier, you're already on your way there!" She says energetically.

"I hope to be, for such a beautiful woman like yourself," I grin, causing Arizel to go redder than she already is. In reality, Arizel genuinely is a very beautiful woman. She is a younger Escort, perhaps close to about 21 in age, with a healthy physique, and an average height boosted by the heels that she wears. Her face is symmetrical, with a white powder used to make her skin appear pale and flawless. She has full lips that are coated in a royal purple gloss, which brings out the purple flecks of color that are in her eyes. Predominantly blue, they have that purple tint to them that despite its rarity, leads me to believe that may be her natural eye color. Last of all, her hair is long and silvery, running down to her lower back and appearing thick and wavy.

Even if I didn't consider Arizel to be that attractive, I would still respect her appearance, and say everything that I did before, because everyone is beautiful in their own way, and to disrespect a woman, or a man for that matter, for how they look, is downright cruel.

"Well, I think we are in luck to have such a polite and charming young man volunteer for us this year, so shall we see who will be joining him in his journey?" Arizel asks the crowd. This causes a thundering response, screams of 'yes', and cheers of passion is what makes up the majority of it.

I myself am incredibly interested to find out who will be joining me. It can go either way really, nobody could volunteer and I could end up with whoever was Reaped, or someone may volunteer that would be quite a challenge for me to overcome. Whatever happens, I'm ready for it.

Arizel walks over to the female's bowl, filled to the brink with countless slips of paper. She doesn't spend as long on this one as she did for the male bowl, but she does make a bit of a show of deciding between two slips that she shuffles over and over. Eventually, she selects one, lightly grabbing it and taking it outside of the bowl. Like every other time, the crowd goes silent, as she prepares to read out the name of the tribute.

"Joining Glacier in the Hunger Games this year is. . . Lazuli Wright!"

As soon as Arizel calls out Lazuli's name, people begin to glance around, waiting for the girl to go up onto the stage. It doesn't take very long for me to notice the people beginning to shuffle out of the way for a girl in the sixteen year-old section. I watch as Lazuli comes forward, face stony as can be. She looks determined as she makes her way up to the stage, which gives me the opportunity to properly examine her.

She is fairly athletic in appearance, with slightly tanned skin and a pretty face. She has long wavy hair running down to her lower back, which is a whitish blonde in color. Her eyes are what I notice the most however, for two reasons. They are a piercing, electric blue, that shine brightly and sparkle in the District 1 sunlight. The other reason however, is how they convey the emotions she would be feeling inside. She is unsure, slightly scared, it's as if she thinks she isn't ready.

From her physique, it appears that she does a lot of training, but seeing as she is sixteen, perhaps she isn't as ready as she would like to be. When she reaches her spot next to Arizel, she looks out solemnly over the crowd.

"Now before we continue with Miss Wright here, I would like to ask the question, are there any volunteers?" The crowd hushes in order to listen for that one confident and enthusiastic voice that is made by a volunteer. They only have to wait a few seconds.

"I volunteer for her place!" My eyes are led to a hand that raises highly into the air, straight from the seventeen year-old section. The people around the volunteer instantly swarm away from her, leaving her in the middle of a circle. Of course, it is Luster Valor.

As people make a path for her, I sense movement behind me. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mayor Valor jump up from his seat, fingers clutching his thick blonde hair.

"Luster?!" He cries out softly, only audible enough for the people on stage to hear him. Wow, she must not have told her father that she was volunteering. That's a horrible thing to do, she is doing that to the person that gave life to her? I cannot help but feel sympathetic towards Mayor Valor.

I watch Luster as she makes her way onto the stage. Her body, is undeniably fit, with an athletic build and features meant for a model. Her hair, reaches just below her shoulder blades, with a slightly curled consistency and a light golden color. Her eyes are a chocolate brown, which stands out nicely against her fair complexion. Her face is cheerful and slightly seductive, with full peachy lips in the shape of a Cupid's bow, being used to blow kisses to the cameras. Seeing her up close in person, makes me realize how attractive she really is.

"You're welcome," I hear her snicker at Lazuli, as she is led off the stage by Peacekeepers. I notice Lazuli roll her eyes as she turns away from Luster.

"Wow don't we have a stunning young woman right here, what is your name love?" Arizel gushes.

"My name is Luster Valor," she calls out into the microphone. This earns a round of applause from the crowd.

"So Luster, why have you decided to volunteer today?" Arizel asks. Luster flashes a grin at the camera.

"To prove I have what it takes to win this thing," she almost smirks. I can't help but feel mixed emotions with her motives, but there isn't anything I can do about it. She is locked in as my District Partner.

I'm sure you will Luster, and we cannot wait to support the two of you in this year's Games! If we could congratulate one another now, that would be great!" Arizel squeaks. I turn towards Luster, who turns to me as well. She puts out her hand, which I take lightly and shake. Next I repeat what I did with Arizel, I bow while I lightly peck the top of her hand. When I look up at Luster, she appears shocked, her mouth slightly open with surprise. She looks away quickly with wide eyes, before ripping her hand away, which the crowd seem to be too distracted by to notice. I however, cannot help but notice the blush that Luster attempts to hide.

"Well I have to say District 1, we have a promising pair of tributes this year! Please give a round of applause for Luster Valor, and Glacier Fritz, your representing tributes for the 80th Annual Hunger Games!" Arizel exclaims as she raises both Luster and my own hand into the air. This earns the loudest applause for the day, as it continues on for about twenty seconds. When Arizel let's go of Luster, she seems to fail to realize she still grips my hand tightly.

"Uhh, Miss Lynehart, I thi-" I am cutoff before I can say anymore, by a sudden force that rips me from her grasp and to the back of the stage. For a moment, I'm confused, that is before I realize it was Mayor Valor that has pulled me aside.

"Mr Fritz, please I beg of you, protect my daughter. She doesn't know what she is getting herself into," Mayor Valor pleads. I'm slightly shaken up, as her grips my shirt by the collar, but I cannot blame him for that. He could be losing his daughter, no doubt would he be stressed.

"Of course, sir," I promise him. He let's go without another word, striding towards the Justice Building presumably to see Luster. As I begin to get escorted by Peacekeepers, I cannot help but feel this responsibility already weighing me down. Of course I don't have to do what he requested, but he is my Mayor, and I promised him. If I don't honor that promise, then what honor do I have?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Here we are guys! The first Reaping chapter, with our District 1 tributes Luster Valor and Glacier Fritz, submitted by** _xxbookwormmockingjayxx_ **and** _GalacticCoach_ **respectively. Please tell me what you thought of them, what you thought of the chapter, and where do you think they'll place? I'm interested to know everyone's thoughts.**

 **Now guys, this is how I'll be doing the Reaping's. Each District will be revealed with their Reaping chapter, so if you submitted for a place and your tribute wasn't put into that District, don't worry because they may be in another one. I only moved tributes if the spot was given to another tribute or they suited another District more to their backup.**

 **I also am going to be creating my own tribute, which you may have seen. Lilac Reynolds of District 11. She is my own tribute, so she won't be winning, but I'll speak more on her during the District 11 Reaping.**

 **There are also still a few spots left, so new readers feel free to submit! The available spots are: D8 M & F, D10 M, D11 M, D12 M. Please submit because I won't be able to finish the Reaping's until they have been filled!**

 **That's it for now guys, I'll be working on District 2 now but I cannot say when I would be getting that out. Hopefully I can get it done quickly enough! Thanks for reading and please review, bye!**


	5. District 2: Princess and Achilles

**Reaping II**

* * *

 _Impassive : /_ ɪmˈpasɪv/

(im-pass-iv)

not feeling or showing emotion.

 _"his cold, impassive face"_

* * *

 **Achilles Crowne**

 **~18~**

 **District 2**

"Are you ready?"

The question is accompanied with a stern, chilling voice, one that's all too familiar with me. Monotone and cold, it's the closest this particular voice ever comes to showing passive emotion. For me, it's one I've heard every day from a young age, likely when I was a toddler. It allows me to pin point immediately exactly who is speaking. My father, Aloysius Crowne.

From somewhere behind me, he stands observantly, situated where he has a clear view of me. Of course, he has to be able to see me, that's the whole point of this 'experiment'.

I breathe deeply, staring ahead as I have no other choice. As of right now, I am confined to a bulky wooden chair. I would turn around to look at my father, as I answer him like a real man should, but there is one thing stopping me.

The thick leather strap that holds my head in place, causing me to stare directly ahead at the screen filled with seizure inducing static. My wrists are laid on the arm rests of the chair, also strapped in place, while my legs have been given the same treatment. There is no possible way of me getting out of this chair, even if I wanted to.

"Why must I still be strapped to the chair? I don't need to be anymore," I tell him in response, taking the risk. I am ready for any reaction that may follow; screaming, beatings, any aggression that he may show. However, once a few seconds have passed, I don't think it will come.

"Because it is all a part of it. Endure it, and prove to me once again, I need to know that you are ready," he informs me. I hear soft, slow footsteps that he emits coming closer to me from behind, causing chills to run down my spine. What is he going to do?

Goosebumps protrude all over my body, as he leans close to me.

"One last time," he grunts. I breathe heavily through my nose, closing my eyes in preparation, more out of a begrudging attitude towards having to repeat this same daily process.

"Okay, I'm ready, lay it on me," I instruct him. He makes his way to my right side, where he grabs the remote and presumably presses the play button. The screen instantly shifts to an aerial shot of a Cornucopia, surrounded by a ring of pedestals that house a tribute each. There aren't many that appear to be very confident, yet alone excited, so I imagine this would be an earlier Hunger Games.

The arena is what is flashed on the screen next, a shot of various places in the arena being shown with every passing second, until about thirty seconds remain.

"Now focus, you need to think like you are one of those tributes when the gong sounds," my father insists. I nod in response, although I find difficulty in doing that with the lack of moveable room.

The arena in this year appears to be very mountainous. The Cornucopia and all the pedestals are situated on a flat surface, that happens to be in the bottom of a valley. All around the Cornucopia area are large hills that lead out to areas that cannot be seen. I can immediately tell that it would be very hard to escape as the tributes have to climb out of this valley.

It also may not be the best strategical position for any alliance that takes the Cornucopia, as they can be trapped and ambushed from every side. I'm confident that the Careers wouldn't struggle with that aspect, but who's to say there are any Careers if this is an early Hunger Games.

"I have chosen this particular Bloodbath for a very specific reason Achilles. As you are going to be leaving for the Games today, I have saved this Bloodbath for a long time to show you now," he quietly informs me. I can tell, I have to have seen all of the Hunger Games that have ever been played, except for this one. Somehow, I don't recognize anyone, or anything from this one so far.

"Why save this one?" I ask as the timer continues to count down. My father hums a laugh, presumably out of amusement.

"Because, this is the most fatal, most brutal Bloodbath that has ever occurred. Watch ahead," he urges. I focus back on the screen, which shows the last fifteen seconds. I don't do so much as blink when an explosion rocks the arena, with blood and guts flying everywhere and causing most people to scream with horror. There goes one tribute. My eye is drawn to a tribute that has been thrown off balance, as he stands two pedestals away from the explosion. I watch, not even phased, as the boy stumbles off his pedestal, screaming as he falls towards the ground.

A moment later, he is enveloped by fire that expels from the ground, once again shaking the arena with its roar. Just like that, two tributes have been eliminated. And I feel absolutely nothing for them. The first tribute who was blown up, is flashed on the screen, along with their name, age and District. I learn that she was only thirteen, and from District 5. The second tribute, the boy, he was fifteen and was from District 9. Again however, I feel nothing. Not even the slightest bit sympathetic.

When the gong sounds, all hell breaks loose. Not a single tribute runs away from the Cornucopia, each one runs into the center in hopes of gaining supplies and weaponry. There are quite a few behind as they were still distracted and disoriented by the explosions.

The third tribute to go down is the boy from District 1, a slender gangly boy that has his throat slashed open as he attempted to back the girl from District 3 into a corner. I learn that it was the boy from District 3 that killed him. The girl looks relieved for a moment, before the cleaver that the boy used is embedded into her skull. He killed his own District partner, now that is heartless.

Next it shows a bloody battle between the boy from District 10 and the boy from District 12. The 10 boy is strangling the other one to death with his lasso, but that is abruptly stopped when the District 10 girl severs the lasso, saving the District 12 boy. The District 10 boy is so surprised, that he barley has any reaction time for the knife that the girl shoves through his eye. Another District partner killing? The girl runs off with the District 12 boy, holding his hand as they run. It doesn't last much longer, as the District 12 boy slices off her arm, causing her to shriek.

He knocks her over the head repeatedly with her severed arm, before he leaps onto her from behind, grabbing her around the torso and planting a butcher's knife into her stomach, which he rips out after slashing sideways, causing her insides to fall out in front of her. She collapses a moment later, the look of heartbreak and betrayal in her accusing eyes. The District 12 boy doesn't do so much as blink, as he escapes out of the valley.

"I like him, he knows what he is doing," I grin.

Next, we are shown the District 2 girl, lying on the ground with a look of fear as the District 8 boy holds a spear to her neck. He looks rather sympathetic, and hesitant to kill her. That will be his one mistake.

"Sorry," he whispers. This distraction gives the girl enough time to push the spear away, just as he puts pressure on it. It stabs the ground, taking him by surprise, which doesn't give him enough time to stop the girl leaping on him, and sinking her teeth into his face. He screams hysterically, as she pins his arms down, repeatedly ripping out chunks of his face with her teeth, and spitting them away. Anyone who is squeamish would not be able to handle this. I admire her ferocity as she continuously eats away at his face, which becomes a bloody bubbly mess that looks like minced meat. His groans can be heard, as well as his sobs.

Eventually, he must die from the blood loss, because he stops struggling and goes limp. I've got to say, that's one of the most brutal killings I've seen, and I've seen all of the Hunger Games.

Now I see the District 5 boy striding towards the District 6 girl, with a hungry sadistic look on his face. He holds a spear, in which he is ready to end her existence with. The District 6 boy sees this, but doesn't have enough time to get to the District 5 boy. All he can do now, is leave it, or attempt to save his District partner. The 5 boy throws the spear at an alarming speed, at the girl from 6, but the District 6 boy leaps in the way, the spear sinking into his chest.

He appears to die instantly, which is followed by a bloodcurdling scream from the girl. As the boy from 6 collapses, he drags down his District partner with him, who was also hit by the spear. The spear hit both of them, that is hilarious! The District 5 boy pries the spear out of their corpses, running off with a smile.

"That was impressive," I remark.

The next scene is a sword fight between the weak girl from District 12, and the lanky boy from District 2. The two appear worn, as they swing lazily at each other. The swords meet in the air, with the two grunting as they attempt to overpower one another. Eventually, the District 12 girl pulls back her sword, causing the District 2 boy to stumble to the side. She thrusts her sword into his lower chest, causing him to cough up blood. This is followed by him doing the same towards her unsuspecting body. The sword ruptures her stomach, making her eyes bulge with shock.

The two stumble to their knees, trying to outlast the other. It doesn't matter in the end however, because eventually both collapse lifelessly to the ground. After a few fights where nobody dies, most of the surviving tributes have dispersed and ditched the Cornucopia. Only three tributes remain, two of them, tied and bound, and the other standing over them menacingly. The pair that are bound are the two tributes from District 11, while the boy that stands over them, is once again the boy from District 5.

He makes the pair face each other, as they sob and murmur pleas. Luckily, the District 5 boy doesn't appear to have the slightest care for these pleas.

"Who wants to die first?" he hisses. The District 11 tributes look at each other with fear, before the boy manages to put on a look of bravery and determination.

"I will, kill me first!" He shouts with contempt. The District 5 boy laughs, before he walks behind the girl from 11. He raises a knife to throw at the boy, which causes the boy to wince, and shut his eyes for preparation. Instead however, the boy from 5 begins to slowly behead the girl.

"Nooo!" The boy cries out with despair. He watches in horror, as the girl's head is slowly carved off. Gurgles and whimpers from the girl are heard, before her eyes roll back into her head and her tongue falls out of her mouth. The boy from 5 rips the rest of her head off, holding it up victoriously for the District 11 boy to see.

"Whoops. I thought you said kill _her_!" The District 5 boy exclaims.

"You son of a bitch," the boy responds darkly.

"Well, it doesn't matter now, because it's your turn." Seconds later, the District 5 boy begins bashing in the skull of the District 11 boy, with the head of his District partner. The cries from the boy are loud at first, but as time goes on, his head becomes more caved in, and eventually he can't say coherent sentences. With one last hit, the District 5 boy stares down at his handy work, a smile visible under the fresh coat of blood that covers his face.

He listens joyfully to the cannons that fire after. _BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

When the cannons stop firing, my father pauses the TV. He makes his way in front of me, undoing the straps for my head, arms, and legs.

"So, you understand why I showed this one to you?" My father asks.

"Yeah, it was pretty hectic," I reply admirably.

"That, was the 19th Hunger Games. To this day, it was voted the most gruesome Bloodbath to have ever occurred, and still has the highest fatality rate with 13 deaths in the Bloodbath, excluding the 50th Hunger Games as that was a Quarter Quell," he informs me.

"Wow, it would be awesome to have Bloodbath's that fatal nowadays, instead the outer District's have gotten better, now not so many die," I grumble.

"Well, you can change that this year," he smirks in response. I nod my head, a slight grin creeping onto my face.

"The Victor of the 19th Hunger Games was the District 5 boy, unsurprisingly. You saw from that he was a savage tribute, he ended up taking out a total of ten tributes, four of which were in the Bloodbath. The Games lasted for five days. You know why he was so successful?" He asks.

"Because, he couldn't care. He didn't let emotions get in the way," I answer him.

"Correct. And that is what I just saw you do. You didn't bat an eye when any of them died, you watched the entire time with that same bloodlust look that you have developed. You are ready son," he says proudly. Normally any person told this would be thrilled, thankful, excited. I don't, because I've been taught not to. Instead, I nod.

It truly does mean a lot to have my father say that. He is a hard nut, Head Trainer at the District 2 Academy, and he runs the program which sees the tribute that we have volunteer each year. Our method is different to that of District 1 and 4, we enter a combat competition, in which we fight in an elimination ladder that leads to two final fighters for both the females and males.

My father has been building me up for years, a super tribute, one that cannot feel emotion, that will be able to flawlessly execute the District's wishes. I won the final fight yesterday, beating the last contender. . . literally, until his blood was all over the floor. Now, I have truly won the right to volunteer, and I can do what my father has worked so hard for.

"The Reaping starts in half an hour. Get ready and don't be late, I want two consecutive Victor's. You will be working with Ryus and Cato this year, but they don't know what they are doing. They don't understand the true flaws that District 2 have fallen to. Especially Cato, since he was one of the lucky few to have experienced it and still won," he says sternly. I nod my head, saluting my father before exiting the dark room. I would never let that weakness affect me, that weakness being one thing I cannot feel. Emotion.

* * *

 _Liberation : /_ lɪbəˈreɪʃ(ə)n/

(lib-er-aysh-on)

freedom from limits on thought or behaviour.

 _"the struggle for women's liberation"_

* * *

 **Princess Diamond Putiane**

 **~18~**

 **District 2**

I lean against the musty old wall, as we all wait for permission to enter the room. We have waited here for about five minutes, unbearably silent as anyone that speaks may be beaten. It's such an unpredictable environment in this household. I glance further down the line, seeing the rest of the girls. Each of them stand solemnly, some staring down at the floor, other examining their nails, and a few staring out the minuscule window in this room.

I glance to my right side, towards the front of the line. The girl I'm closest to out of everyone stands by my side, Athena Putiane. Her long golden hair is what she plays with, as she impatiently waits.

"Athena, I'm not sure I'm ready for this," I whisper to her. She looks back up at me in alarm, holding a finger to her lips.

"Quiet Princess, you're too loud he might hear you," she ushers me. I sigh, shaking my head.

"What does it matter, he loves me, and today is my last day here. . . well, half day," I reply.

"You'll be fine, I've seen you fight, you're amazing!" She assures me, with a hushed whisper.

"I hope you're right," I mutter. To an extent, she is probably right. Several weeks ago, Golden entered me into the Volunteer Competition, as he thought I was finally ready. Seeing as I'm eighteen, it would have been my last chance anyways, but he allowed me to enter, and I made it all the way through. Yesterday I beat the last girl in the Final Fight, and today, I volunteer.

However, now I'm already regretting it. This wasn't my decision to make, it was Golden's, but some small part of me wishes he hadn't. I love my sisters here, I don't want to have to leave Athena and the others behind.

Another thing is that I know I'll have to play against really strong tributes. I have trained all my life for this, but I still have to fight against whoever the District 1, and 4 males are, and my own District partner. I saw him yesterday absolutely destroying his competitor in the final fight, and although I had never met him before, I'm absolutely terrified of Achilles Crowne.

 _No, you'll figure out how to deal with him,_ I scold myself. I shake my weary head, rubbing my eyes as I prepare for the biggest day of my life. I am the oldest, but it feels like I've been handed such a heavy responsibility. In a small way, I envy Athena. Although she is seventeen, and she would like to be in my place right now, I can't help but feel hesitant about volunteering.

In the back of my mind, the idea still remains of escaping. Being cooped up in this place all my life hasn't had the most positive effects on me, and I've always dreamt of running away to experience a different outlook on life. The thing is, this is my opportunity to seeking that new experience. The Hunger Games is a once in a life time opportunity in District 2, as every year there are volunteers for both the boys and girls. It's the one thing that drives me to love it, which has developed overtime into more bloodthirsty traits.

"Girls, breakfast has come," a voice rings out from the dining room. Each one of us stands alert, as we file into the room, one by one. At the entrance, stands Golden La'Rue, our guardian, our father, our master. He is a tall pasty man, with skinny arms and a neat crop of combed blonde hair on top of his head. His face is long and gaunt, with blue eyes that come across as cold and calculating.

The first of my sisters leans close to him, as he bends down lower. She gives him a quick peck on the cheek, followed by a brief 'good morning sir'. Golden doesn't let us call him anything other than sir, for some strange reason. It's authoritative, but at this point I'm used to it.

Next is Athena, who also kisses him on the cheek, following up with 'good morning sir'. Once she walks away to her place at the table, I prepare myself. We have had to do this every morning, lunch, and dinner for as long as I can remember.

I raise my head, causing my lips to make contact with his smooth, shaven skin. I kiss his cheek, before backing away as I do every time.

"Good morning sir," I utter, before turning and taking my seat beside Athena. We wait patiently as each girl makes their way into the room, greeting Golden in the same fashion before taking their allocated seat. After a minute or two, as Golden likes us to take our time when greeting him, all my other sisters have sat down at the table. We sit in absolute silence as Golden pulls out the chair that rests at the head of the table, before sitting down and scanning the lot of us.

"We haven't got all day, so start eating," he instructs us calmly. Immediately, every girl except myself reach forward, serving themselves from the bounty of food that takes up the middle of the long oak table. Athena goes straight for the bacon, which is no surprise seeing as she obsesses over bacon. However, I cannot bring myself to eat. I'm sure I'll be eating on the trip to the Capitol, and plus my nerves will have finally settled meaning I might have more of an appetite.

The main issue however, is that Golden doesn't like it when we don't eat. He fears that if we don't eat at every meal, we are depriving ourselves of the nutrition that makes our bodies nourished and voluptuous.

As a result of this reason, I serve myself a slice of toast, one that I butter and rest on my otherwise vacant plate. Golden allows us girls to eat for roughly three minutes, before he speaks again. He himself doesn't properly eat, instead he monitors us intently, resting his chin against his entwined fingers. When he does intend to speak, he gains our attention by the light tapping of his metal fork against a glass cup.

Immediately the older girls of the group, including myself, drop what we are doing and give him our full attention. The younger girls take a moment longer to notice, meaning they are more rushed and embarrassed when they stop. Once everyone is paying attention to Golden, he smiles widely, which looks rather creepy on his gaunt face.

"Today is the day my precious gems. After all these years, we are about to see off our first volunteer for the Hunger Games. It's been a long and rocky journey, but today we can finally farewell Princess, who will make a new journey to the Capitol and bring me glory," Golden exclaims proudly, yet softly. There is a brief smattering of applause from the other girls, some giving me slight glimpses of jealousy. However, I'm too uneasy to really care. Not because I'm about to enter the Hunger Games, but because of the way Golden mentioned bringing _him_ glory.

He is getting me to do this for my own benefit, right? He wouldn't be so selfish, at least I hope not.

"Is she going to be winning us a house in the Victor's Village?" one of the younger girls asks. Golden snaps his head to face her, his eyes wide with disgust.

"Leia! Did you just speak without my permission?" He growls, slamming his fist against the table causing a loud bang. Many of the girls jump out of fear, a few uttering a brief shriek. However, Golden appears to be too preoccupied to notice the others, he instead vividly stares at Leia, shaking in complete and utter rage. Leia herself backs down, shrinking into her chair while she trembles fearfully.

"I-I'm sorry Sir, I jus-"

"No! This is blatantly unacceptable!" He shrieks. We all remain silent as we watch in horror at the scene unfolding in front of us. It's been a while since someone has stepped out of line, and Golden has gotten angry. I forgot how dreadful it was. Whenever this has happened in the past, Golden would make sure to punish us. I have one or two scars still remaining from the discipline he has enforced in the past, but some of the more reckless girls have near ten.

I feel horrible for Leia, her general curiosity getting her into such trouble, as well as with how minor the reason is. To my knowledge, she has never really experienced such a punishment before. What Golden does is heat up an iron rod, until it is a glowing ember of sizzling metal. The punishment proceeds after, when he rests the hot metal against our back for roughly five seconds. You would think he would choose a punishment that doesn't maim our appearance as badly as being burnt can, but for the majority of us his methods prove to be effective.

Regardless, Leia is one of the youngest, and therefore one of the more quiet of my sisters. So for her to slip up this first time, is a very big deal for her.

I watch in horror as Golden reaches for the iron rod, simultaneously grabbing Leia's wrist tightly, and roughly yanking her towards him. Leia begins to cry, begging for forgiveness as she sobs heavily. Her dismay catches me in a completely sympathetic standpoint, causing me to feel a tingle in both of the burns scars located on my lower back. Just the memory causes it to throb, so much so that I cannot bring myself to sit down any longer. I immediately rise up, pushing my chair out from behind me.

"Sir! Please stop!" I plead. Everyone glances at me, completely taken aback that I have done this. Even I'm shocked, surely this is suicide. My stomach begins to churn, and my chest becomes riddled with nerves as I watch Golden pause, turning his head slowly in my direction. His expression is hard to read, but I can tell from his body language that he isn't happy.

"Princess my dear, what did you just say?" He asks me, voice almost a hiss. I breathe deeply, as my mind rapidly decides on how I'm going to resolve this. I land on an idea, one that I'm not completely confident in. I hope my acting isn't that bad.

"Sir, it's my last morning here, it's a special occasion. I just don't think anyone should be punished now, it would dishearten me before I leave for the Capitol," I say sweetly. I make sure to make my eyes wide and shiny, and look as cute as possible. I may be eighteen, but I've always been told that I am Golden's favorite. That's why he wanted me to have my chance for glory after all.

Everyone else seems to hold their breaths, as they await Golden's imminent reaction. His facial expressions make him appear conflicted on the inside, but as seconds pass by, he looks less sure of his initial intentions. After a tense ten seconds, Golden finally relents, sighing as he lowers the iron rod and loosens his grip on Leia's wrist. The poor girl gasps with the sudden action, visibly sweating with terror.

"This is the one exception. Don't think I'll think twice next time one of you does the same," Golden snarls venomously, the soft look he gave me completely dissipating from his eye and the casual ruthless look returning. Everybody nods profusely, as he threatens us with his glare.

"Good, we leave in five minutes," he says darkly, before storming off. The room remains eerily silent, as Leia continues to tremble in shock. Suddenly, everyone turns to me, which causes me to notice I'm still standing up.

"Princess. . . how on earth did you pull that off?" Athena asks softly. I turn to Athena, smiling slyly while shrugging at the same time. I don't know how exactly I managed to convince an angry Golden to not punish Leia, but if I can manipulate Golden, perhaps I can manipulate the future District 2 volunteer. Achilles Crowne.

* * *

 **Achilles Crowne**

 **~18~**

 **District 2**

"Aye Achilles! You ready?" I catch a glimpse of the boy that shouts out to me from across the street. He is with a large group of fellow teenagers, but I can't make out exactly what age. I don't look for very long however, because I feel a strong hand grip my shoulder, making me face ahead.

"Don't pay attention to him Achilles, I don't want you to be distracted. You must remain focused," a gruff voice instructs. It's quite easy to recognize the booming authoritative voice of my father, one that I am naturally used to obeying. From behind me, I hear the spiteful sigh that belongs to my mother, Helvia Crowne.

"Aloysius, is it really necessary for him to be so focused he cannot interact with other boys his age?" She scolds. I sense my father look back at her sternly.

"I will teach my son how to act woman, so settle down," he growls. I hear my mother about to protest, but she is quickly stifled by my younger fifteen year-old sister Melinda Crowne.

"Mom just leave it, dad does things the way. . . he wants them to be done," she reasons. I repress the urge to roll my eyes, as I know what she said was out of fear more so than respect.

"You'll make a fine warrior one day Melinda, I'll make you into one when Achilles returns home," my father informs her.

"Thanks dad, that would be great!" she squeaks. He has a long way to go if he is planning on training Melinda. My thoughts are abruptly disrupted when my mother's voice cuts through them.

"Did you see the news this morning?" She asks.

"Helvia, I work at the Academy, I knew yesterday who the female Volunteer is. If I'm being honest the name was a bit too prissy for District 2, but she was one hell of a fighter," my father comments.

"No Aloysius, the Peacekeeper's are supposedly close on the trail of that guy from District 1, the one that kidnapped those children a couple of years ago. Apparently, they have a lead on one or two of the children," she exclaims. My dad shrugs, evidentially unmoved by this news. To be quite honest, I feel very much the same.

"Why should I care?" he asks. This causes another verbal fight between my parents, but I don't care much for it. Now I'm thinking of what my mother was speaking of, I vaguely remember the case, and I remember the name of the guy responsible.

"Who was the guy again? Galum Lauren? Was it something like that?" Melinda asks. I shake my head, knowing she got it wrong. His name is a tad different.

"Melinda shut up, you don't know what you're talking about," my father growls. Melinda instantly backs away, blinking shyly.

"Don't treat her like that Aloysius, she was only trying to contribute to the conversation!" My mother retorts.

"I'll treat her how I wa-"

"Enough!" The words leave my mouth from the back of my throat, as an abrupt and angry roar. The rest of my family looks at me in shock, my father staring quizzically since I interrupted his sentence.

"I'm tired of your pathetic bickering. This is my day, and I'm not letting you people ruin it," I hiss. I expect outrage from my father, but astoundingly he watches me proudly.

"I swear to god, if any of you come after me, I will not hesitate to slit your throats. Not even yours, father," I threaten with a glaring expression. Both my mother and sister stare absolutely dumbfounded, somehow surprised by my confession to not caring for either of them in the slightest. My father on the other hand, acts as if I just brought him home a trophy. But what do I care what he thinks anymore.

"I don't have time for any of you, see you when I come back home," I utter darkly, before turning on my heel and striding off, face contorted in a look of fierce determination. As I leave my family behind, and make my way closer towards the Town Square, the area becomes more populated. Excited families that start whispering and pointing at me as they see me. The ones that are in my way notice this and instantly pull their young children or oblivious friends out of the way, making way for the future champion of District 2.

When I make it to the Town Square, I'm greeted with long lines that are full of District 2's enormous and plentiful populace. I'm not waiting for this. I make my way to the back of the line, walking through the sea of kids waiting for their time to have the names taken. Many turn in anger, ready to attack the person pushing through and making their way to the front, but when they see my tall figure their eyes widen, and they instinctively step aside. When I get near the front, I end up bumping into a fairly muscular boy, one that takes their time with turning around.

People around me begin to murmur to one another, some taking a step back with a look of absolute interest. When the boy turns around, I cannot help but smirk. I examine his facial features, face beaten to a pulp with black eyes, swollen cheeks, bruised lips and multiple bumps that make him look like absolute shit.

Of course, I was the one responsible for doing this to Articus Mance, as he was the challenger I defeated in the final fight. He glares at me with utmost hatred, while I stare back with mild amusement.

"So, you did survive. I don't know how," I grin.

"You have a lot of nerve trying to push in front of me," he spits.

"As do you for refusing to move, seeing as I beat the absolute shit out of you," I snap back at him. He grits his teeth, clenching his fists as he holds back his urge to kill me.

"Now move, or I'll put you in the ground myself," I order him. People let out gasps as Articus pulls out a small switch blade, holding it at my neck. Now he is the one grinning wildly at me. This changes when he sees me continuing to smile at him, full of amusement.

"Careful, you think you're going to kill me?" He asks crazily.

"I will if I have to, you're lucky I didn't in the Final Fight, I was completely allowed to," I smirk at him.

"And you must really be stupid, they are going to confiscate that knife when they check you," I laugh.

"What do I care? You're going to be dead, that's what I care about," he growls. I sigh, shaking my head.

"Okay I'm bored, I'm moving on," I say with boredom, shoving the arm that holds the knife to the side, and punching his puffy swollen nose. People start talking with excitement, some even cheering when Articus collapses to the floor, trying to stifle the blood I assume would be flowing from his nose. I know for a fact I felt a crunch, meaning that I broke it once again.

If getting through to the front was somehow any easier, then it definitely is now. People have made a path for me to practically stroll to the front, which I do so with mild satisfaction. The Peacekeeper's come barging into the crowd a little too late, after I have conveniently walked off. I don't believe anyone would be stupid enough to tell them what happened, at least I hope nobody is that stupid. As they try to get a handle on the nonexistent situation, I get to the desk at the front. In which a Peacekeeper sits behind.

She seems a little too cheerful for a Peacekeeper, but it's understandable since there are Peacekeeper's that have to put up with scared, crying, wimpy children every Reaping in the other District's. At least here they have citizens that are ecstatic with energy.

I put my hand out, which the woman takes in her hand and slips one of my fingers into.

"This won't hurt a bit," she tries to tell me reassuringly.

"No, it won't," I respond blandly. When I hear the piercing ding, I know I am about to be pricked. Literally milliseconds later, I feel something protrude into my finger, undoubtedly drawing blood and taking my DNA. A little buzz sounds as I take my finger away, which I assume is showing my name on the screen. The woman glances at it, before looking at me with fascination.

"Achilles Crowne, so you're the one that was going to volunteer today, right?" She asks, her voice full of curiosity.

"Yep," I yawn, before turning away and lumbering towards the eighteen year-old section. I didn't even give the woman time to speak, I know she was planning on starting a conversation, but I really just want this to begin. My time is soon.

I walk through the crowd of fellow eighteen year-olds, all of them moving aside to allow me passage. Since I am volunteering, I am making my way towards the front so I can get up to the stage quicker when I do shout out those crucial words. When I reach the front, I stand there unmoving, silently waiting until the Reaping begins.

Fifteen minutes later, is when I hear the sound of the trumpets. They signify the beginning of the Reaping, when all of the potential tributes have been sorted into their age groups, and the Victor's are ready to file out onto the stage.

An ear-splitting round of applause follows, as the Victor's take their first step onto the stage, with thundering applause that I actually decide to join in on. Why not? I respect each and every one of them for making it out alive.

There are quite a few Victor's that we actually have, Mars Tyrell, who is somehow still alive seeing as he is the oldest living Victor. He won the 5th Hunger Games. Enobaria Golding who won the 62nd Hunger Games, Brutus Gunn who won the 58th Hunger Games, and Cato Ludwig who won the 74th Hunger Games, to note some of our most famous Victor's. Another addition this year is our most recent Victor, Ryus Griftyte, who won last years Hunger Games, the 79th. He raises his hands victoriously, as girls scream his name. They are so blinded by their lust.

My eyes draw away from Ryus, to the next person that strolls onto the stage. Our hulking mayor, Mayor Tutt, with a body that looks as if it is about to burst out of his suit. Pompus Tutt is a past Victor of District 2, having won the 46th Hunger Games. He was so popular with the District that he ran for the position of Mayor, and won.

He grins with excitement as he waits for the crowd to die down. Mayor Tutt usually likes to enjoy the reception he gets, before silencing everyone with his booming voice.

"District 2! Welcome to the Reaping, for the 80th Annual Hunger Games!" He roars into the microphone, causing an abrupt round of applause.

"For the first year, we are welcoming our most recent Victor, overall champion of the 79th Annual Hunger Games, Ryus Griftyte! Welcome to the Victor's Lineup!" He booms, shaking Ryus' hand. When the crowd has stopped cheering for Ryus, Mayor Tutt holds up his hand.

"So let's get this show on the road, as I'm sure we are all deeply excited to see who will be participating for us this year!" Mayor Tutt exclaims, a crazed look in his eyes. He slaps Ryus on the back, as Ryus makes his way up to the microphone. It is tradition in Panem that the District with the reigning Victor has that Victor introduce their Escort. Personally, I don't understand it, it's quite a stupid tradition. But if I must do that next year, then I suppose I have no choice.

Everyone settles down for Ryus as he leans into the microphone, coughing in order to clear his throat.

"May I please welcome District 2's lovely Escort, Rhaella Glistenbee!" He announces. Rhaella practically prances onto the stage, as she waves to the roaring crowd. People squeal her name, while others sickenly wolf whistle. The whole lot of these people, they're all sick.

Rhaella doesn't seem to be the least bit deterred by this however, in fact she seems to encourage this behaviour, as she blows kisses and winks at members of the crowd.

"Hello District 2! We have reached this exciting time of the year once again, and seeing as you are the Reigning District, I'm sure you are all dying to know who will be our lucky man and woman this year!" She gushes. The response is yet another cheer from the crowd, one that shakes the ground with the sheer volume they emit. Luckily, it seems Rhaella is just as excited to see who she will be taking to the Capitol.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I think it is time to select our fortunate pair! Please hold your excitement until I have read out the name," she requests, before trotting towards the female bowl. When she reaches it, she swoops her hand deep inside the bowl, repeatedly shuffling through the papers that rest at the bottom. With one swift motion, she rips a slip of paper outside of the bowl, holding it high in the air for everyone to see.

The atmosphere would be tense, if it weren't for the knowledge that someone was going to volunteer. So even as Rhaella unfolds the slip, and proceeds to examine it, people whisper excitedly about who's chance of becoming a tribute could be ruined. Rhaella clears her throat,before calling out the name loud and clear.

"Melinda Crowne." The familiar name of Crowne draws my attention immediately, while others discuss with excitement a name that they all know. Unfortunately for them, it was for my incapable sister Melinda. My eyes wander over towards he fifteen year-old section as Melinda begins to make her way up to the stage. I cannot help but chuckle as I watch her fake determination and confidence. Before she makes it to the stairs however, a voice breaks the silence of the air.

"Wait, I volunteer!"

Everyone frantically searches for the volunteer, a person who has a very soft and seductive tone to her voice. There are a few people that would know who this girl is, as they would have watched the female Final Fight. I myself know who the girl is, she has a very strange name for District 2. But hey, I know for a fact she is a decent fighter, decent enough to win the Final Fight and be named the volunteer for this year.

I eventually see her emerge from the eighteen year-old section, and even I cannot deny she is stunning. Light blonde hair, a rarity in District 2, falls in a wavy curtain down to her mid back. Brilliant blue eyes in an almond shape that just scream confidence. A little button nose with full red lips and soft rosy cheeks complete her breathtaking features, complimented by tanned skin that is the most District 2 looking thing about her. It almost looks like she belongs to District 1.

There is no doubt however, that her name ultimately suits her appearance. Princess.

* * *

 **Princess Diamond Putiane**

 **~18~**

 **District 2**

Have I ever felt something so daunting? I don't think so, not even standing up to Golden was anything like this. Yes, I may have been punished for doing such a thing, but I never would have imagined that one day everyone in this District's eyes would be on me. Especially seeing as I haven't ever really spoken to anybody outside of my family before, it just adds on to the nerve racking experience.

Building up the courage to call out the words was what initially freaked me out. I had felt numb doing so, but I had to push through in order to achieve my goal. The whole time I had been planning it, the same thing had been going through my head.

 _Act, don't show weakness, let them see your beauty._

It was like an echo in my head. So far, it hasn't stopped. As I walk slowly to the stairs, giving the cameras the chance to capture my body, I repeat the words to myself, keeping focused so nothing goes wrong. If I make the right impression, then that's what I can use to my advantage.

Even as I think this, the thought graces the back of my mind that I actually have no idea how to act slutty, beautiful, or seductive. I've never really had any real experience, I've only ever managed to get in the good books with Golden. Perhaps, if I replicate my favorable attitude towards Golden, then I can worm my way into the heart of Achilles, or whoever is the lead Career.

So as I reach the top of the stairs, my strategy is set. I frantically try to remember every time I showed love and affection towards Golden, and how I took his pleasure and warped it to make him love me more than the others. I remember three things; my body, my attitude, and my repetition.

"Come to the center of the stage darling, everyone is excited to get a good look of you," Rhaella urges me. I put on a toothy grin, displaying my pearly white teeth. The walk I give is a sway of the hips, one that should draw all the boys eyes to my curvaceous waist and admirable rear. Rhaella lightly grabs my wrist, leading me to the middle where the microphone is located.

"Oh my have we got a stunner this year, what is your name sweetie?" Rhaella asks. In my mind, I'm hesitant to answer. Every time I've revealed my name to anyone else in District 2, they have questioned how strange it is. Of course, it was Golden's choice, but I cannot help but feel embarrassed. However, I have no choice but to tell them my name, so I can twist this in my favor a little.

"My name is Princess Putiane, but you can call me by my middle name, Diamond," I say calmly, smiling brightly. The crowd breaks into multiple conversations, all sounding like a buzzing bee hive. Rhaella takes what I said right on board.

"Ooh what a lovely name Diamond, so why have you volunteered today?" She asks, voice high with excitement.

"I volunteered because I want to be able to give a show for those watching back home, plus I think it will be fun," I giggle, winking at the cameras. This earns a lot of whistles and cheers from the boys in the crowd.

"Well I must say Diamond, I think you've got a good chance of doing so," she gushes, squeezing my shoulder.

"Now, let's find out who will be joining Miss Putiane as District 2's Male tribute!" Rhaella exclaims. The crowd once again rallies with applause, many of the men roaring at the top of their lungs now. I already know what's coming, I already know who is joining me in the Capitol, and in the arena.

Rhaella obviously doesn't, because she trots over to the male bowl, giddy with excitement. Once again, she plunges her hand deep inside, searching the depths for the one slip of paper that will draw her hand. Eventually, her hand re-emerges, holding onto two slips. She makes a big show about being torn between choosing one, before she drops the one in her left hand. That leaves one last slip, holding the name of the 'future tribute'.

She doesn't waste any time with opening, as it seems she cannot contain her own excitement. Once the slip is unfolded, she calls out the name.

"Byron Riley."

Just like last time, people begin to murmur to one another, trying to see if they recognize Byron at all. Personally, I would have no idea who Byron is, but I look anyway for some sort of movement. However, not even a mere five seconds have passed before our new volunteer has erupted from the crowd.

"I volunteer!" A voice booms out over the noise of the crowd, one that could put Mayor Tutt's voice to shame. Every single person's head turns to the direction of the source of the voice. A small gap becomes prominent in the eighteen year-old section once again, giving everybody a view of the boy that volunteered. As he begins to walk up to the stage, it gives me the chance to take in his appearance properly.

An easy six foot, he towers over many of the other people surrounding him. He is an attractive young man with broad shoulders, and an accompanying muscular and strong figure to match. He has short cropped black hair only about a half inch long, with a very coarse and rough appearance. His nose is slightly bent, which I assume has been from past broken noses, while his eyes are almond shaped and are steel grey. I feel shivers go through my spine when I look into his eyes, all I can sense is hostility, coldness, it's as if he has no emotion. He has an angular jaw and has a small jagged scar running along the right side of his jaw, one that has turned white due to the limitations with healing such a scar. He has an olive tone with hard looking skin, the type that can only be acquired through years of training. He has a few scars on his arms from cuts, that only add to the evidence that this guy has training to death.

He is basically the embodiment of what a District 2 Career looks like.

Achilles stalks up onto the stage, face unsettlingly blank. Not a smile, a smirk, no determination, no proud gloating grin. Nothing. His face is just. . . solemn.

When he reaches the middle of the stage, he doesn't do so much as acknowledge Rhaella's existence. All he does is stand still, staring out into the distance.

"District 2, I think that we are once again in luck! This young man seems to be ready to get right into things! What's your name handsome?" Rhaella asks.

"Achilles Crowne," He says flatly into the microphone. He doesn't even look at Rhaella, he continues to stare into the distance. Rhaella seems slightly dismayed by this, but despite his mediocre response, the crowd already seem to love him. I cannot help but smile admirably when I look at him.

 _It's perfect, 'the power couple'._

"So Achilles, why have you volunteered today?" Rhaella asks. Once again, Achilles doesn't even turn towards her when he answers. This forces Rhaella to put the microphone up to his mouth.

"Because I'm going to win. Consider yourselves lucky that you're getting another Victor," he responds. Although this seems to be winning with the crowd, Rhaella seems to struggle to hide her slight fear of Achilles.

"Well that's excellent Achilles, why don't the two of you shake hands?" She instructs, seeming a tad flustered. I turn to Achilles, holding out my hand lightly. I almost gasp when he takes it in a hard-crushing grip. The thing is, I don't even think he meant it, I think it's just natural. I'm also kind of repulsed to feel how disgustingly rough his skin is, calloused hands seeming closer to cow hide than human skin.

When he lets go, I resist the urge to rub my aching hand, especially when Rhaella takes it in a surprisingly strong grip.

"District 2, these are your tributes for the 80th Annual Hunger Games! Princess "Diamond" Putiane, and Achilles Crowne!" She exclaims. Her voice is drowned out by a thundering cheer from the crowd. Now it's my time to try and catch the eyes of the Capitol. While they'll instantly be attracted to Achilles for his seemingly ruthless nature and presumed cut throat abilities, I suppose I have to earn the spotlight. I try to fit as many blown kisses and winks as possible before the Peacekeeper's lead me away, to the Justice Building. As I watch Achilles, I feel dread in the back of my mind.

Perhaps he'll be harder to manipulate than I initially thought. It looks like I'm going to have my work cut out for me, if I intend on making him fall for me.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **We are now introducing our next two tributes, Princess Diamond Putiane and Achilles Crowne from District 2, submitted by** _roses burning_ **and** _The Pocketwatch Ripper_ **respectively. This chapter is out a lot later than I initially wanted, but Christmas got in the way, as well as the fact I went away for roughly two weeks a couple of days after. But I got it out now, and expect some more updates really soon!**

 **So what did you think of Diamond and Achilles? Feel free to call her Diamond or Princess, it wouldn't matter either way. I'm not going to lie, Diamond's POV was quite difficult. Her character is quite complex, but I think I pulled it off. I do like a challenge though so tell me if I did her justice. How far do you think they'll make it? What else? I would love to see your guy's reviews.**

 **Also, in Achilles' first POV, I went into detail about the Bloodbath of the 19th Hunger Games. Well that District 5 boy is named Ramsay Lector, and he is one of the 80 Victors in my SYOT Universe. I have added a list on my profile of all the Victors, what Games they won, what District they are from, and whether they are Alive or Deceased. I tried to keep it as canon as possible, so if you are interested in that, feel free to check that out. Also if you are curious about any of the Victor's and want to know about any of them, feel free to PM me, I'll be willing to explain anything. Tell me if you notice the pattern with District 7 ;)**

 **District 3 should be out very soon, legitimately a couple of days, so keep an eye out! See you then and please review! Bai!**


	6. District 3: Caeso and Byte

**Reaping III**

* * *

 _Fugitive : /_ ˈfjuːdʒɪtɪv/

(fu-jee-tiv)

a person who has escaped from captivity or is in hiding.

 _"fugitives from justice"_

* * *

 **Byte Edison**

 **~15~**

 **District 3**

I groan, putting my face in my palm as I feel the drop of water once again hit the center of my forehead. As I wipe it away with my sleeve, I glance up, trying to identify the source of the leakage in my bedroom ceiling. I grit my teeth, denying the urge to punch a hole through my wall.

Any normal person would think the perfect solution would be to simply move the location of my bed. That would be my solution as well. The catch is, I can't move my bed. My room is too small to physically move it anywhere else, it's literally the size of a closet.

Another solution someone would suggest is to simply move to a different room. If our residence was larger, than perhaps I would. Unfortunately, this rundown two-bedroom flat is what I have to call home for the time being. Until we move yet again of course, probably to somewhere even more deteriorated, rat infested, and prone to leakages. Oh how I love my life.

I'm now forced to slam my book shut, before the water droplets begin to fall on the pages and ruin them. The slam was required of course because in its own little way, it's my method of relieving a bit of the frustration I hold from needing to quit reading. I value my privacy, so to read in another room would force me to endure the constant and rampant noises of Downtown Three, where my humble abode is currently located.

It wasn't always like this, once upon a time I lived a fairly normal life. No moving, no running, no trouble with expenses. That changed the first time we moved. It's never been the same since really, and I blame my father for it. My father has always been the dangerous type, with bad choices and a terrible influence for me if I was to ever see him as my father.

Him being as stupid as he genuinely is, I honestly don't believe he realizes that me and my mother are as smart as we are. Wasted talent I would say, but what does he care? He doesn't realize I know about his crimes, about why we truly do move all the time. It doesn't take a genius to work it out, yet he thinks I am stupid enough to just pass it off as what his excuse is, 'I like to move around'.

The reality is, my father, Gadget Edison, is on the run from the law, and dragging along my mother and I for the ride. He may be stupid, but he is still clever enough to work out how to steal thousands of dollars of money. Look where we are now because of it.

I drag myself to the end of my bed, kicking open the closet door with my feet. My 'bedroom' doesn't actually have any walking space, my bed literally takes up the entirety of the floor space. I stand up off of the bed, now outside of my room. I can see through the tattered tarp that serves as our curtain, that people have begun to flood the outside street, all presumably heading towards the Reaping.

"Mom, I'm ready to leave," I call out, not needing to raise my voice that loud due to the confined size of the flat. Despite knowing my mother would have heard, I am not graced with an answer. I scrunch my forehead in question, she should be here, it's Reaping Day.

I exit the room, finding myself in the dining room. My mother sits at the table, with her back facing me. I glance around, noting that she is alone and that my father is still nowhere to be seen. Tesla Edison is a frail woman, years of holding up unsuccessful jobs taking its toll and wearing her down. She is fairly wiry, and looks as if she's never had a full meal. One thing that is new with my mother however, is the alarming shaking that her body is undergoing. She trembles severely, hands gripping her almond colored hair.

"Mom?" I say softly, cautious with how she'll react to the sudden noise. She spins around in an instant, her eyes wide and her skin pale.

"Byte! Um. . . get your stuff together, we wi-, will go soon," she instructs. Her voice is shrill, with her speech broken from voice breaks and shifts with her tone.

"What's wrong?" I ask hesitantly. She lowers her gaze, sighing heavily as she grips the small splinter filled table we own.

"Your father. This time, it's not looking good. He hasn't returned home because they are monitoring his trail. I've warned him not to come here, otherwise. . ." She trails off, seemingly incapable of finishing her sentence. I'm speechless really, not because I'm shocked, or frightened, but because generally I'm not that great with social interactions, which includes comfort talk, and talking in general. So to me, it's impossible to think of what exactly would be suitable to say to my mother in this situation.

"Mom, this man has never cared for us, he has dragged us through the mud for years. Now is the time to leave him for good," I respond. She looks at me in alarm, shaking her head with fearful eyes.

"We can't do that, he'll. . ."

"Hurt you?" I finish off her sentence for her. She nods softly, evidently distressed by the idea of her 'loving' husband abusing her.

"Yes," she whispers.

"He won't even be able to find us. We can go off the grid, is sticking with dad really the right thing to do anymore?" I ask. She doesn't answer immediately; her thoughts appear too conflicted to do so. After a couple seconds of consideration, she shakes her head.

"I can't do it Byte. _We_ can't," she informs me, rejecting my suggestion. There is no other way to put it, this makes me angry. Can't she see that we are in danger by sticking with this man? It's doing us so much harm physically, mentally, emotionally, and economically.

"Well if you can't accept the facts, we can't help each other," I say quietly. She opens her mouth to reply, but is interrupted by a sudden thud, which I presume to be the front door being swung open. A second later, the door is slammed, causing the whole apartment to shake. A series of locks and bolts can be heard being adjusted, and then a flurry of footsteps making their way towards us.

My father walks into the room, glancing wildly around the room before he makes eye contact with us. He jumps back, jittery as can be in reaction to seeing the two of us.

"What, why are you two here?" he demands, sounding rushed and erratic.

"We live here, that's why," I shoot at him, crossing my arms. He sends me a filthy look, glaring spitefully.

"Shut up you sorry excuse for a son. Should have forced your mother into the abortion," he snaps, muttering the last part to himself.

"What are you doing here Gadget? You know they have this place on lock-down," my mother questions him, voice shaking frantically.

"I've got no other choice you stupid woman," he shouts at her. I clench my fists, staring down my father with ever-growing rage. Who does he think he is?

"Calm down, we can work this out," my mother tries to reason, standing up from her chair and holding her hands out softly.

"No, we can't work this out. I've gone too far this time, I'm too deep in this s***," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck in complete paranoia. He pauses for a moment, eyes wide and bloodshot, before glancing out of the window.

"We can't stay here," he breathes.

"No, _you_ can't Gadget, you need to leave before they come after you," my mother insists, lightly touching his arm. I cry out loudly when I watch the event that unfolds. As soon as her hand touches his arm, he flings his arm rapidly upwards, slapping her cheek so forcefully that she is thrown to the side. She cries out loud, sobbing as she holds a hand to her marked cheek.

"Get your s***, we are moving again," he snarls. I feel my teeth grit, while I gnash them together. Blood rushes to my head, as my heart begins to pound a million miles an hour. My hands are clenched so tightly that they have gone white from the lack of circulation. It takes all my energy to prevent myself doing anything, which I struggle to do as I watch my own father threaten my mother.

But as she continues to sob and not do what he demanded, his own anger begins to build up. He shouts at her, but I cannot bring myself to concentrate on his words. My body is tense as he begins to approach her once more, bellowing out his frustration and abuse without relenting. He begins to roll up his sleeves, but before he can do anything else to hurt her, I let myself loose. With his back turned to me, I charge forward, tears streaming down my face due to the extremity of the situation. I barge into my father, taking him completely off guard. He flies backwards, smashing through the dirty smudged window and landing in front of a series of families that appropriately make their way towards the Town Square.

I'm paused for a moment, as I attempt to absorb what has just happened. I begin to breathe slowly, holding up my hands to see that they are still shaking. My mother whimpers from the corner of the room, as she slouches in a protective position, peering out at me from a little gap between her arms. My anger begins to cool down, only to be replaced by shock. Did I just do that? When I glance out the window, I immediately see that I indeed just committed that act. People are huddled together, murmuring to one another as they stare down at my father's groaning form. Some look back into our apartment, such as a girl that was just about to walk past, staring at my horrified face. Broken shards of glass surround my father, which he rolls over as he tries to get up. I notice the crimson red blood that seeps from his cuts, flowing onto the dirty grey pavement.

"What is going on here?!" I hear a man's voice boom. Most people begin to disperse, not wanting to be seen watching the scene, while others simply step aside for the men in white armor marching towards our apartment. The Peacekeepers.

The man in the front, a brutish bald guy with thick stubble growing around his chin, barges through people with his gun raised. He glares at the scene, first eyeing down the broken window and myself, before he takes notice to the injured man on the ground. It's almost instant, that the expression of familiarity and recognition becomes prominent on his face. It's almost the look of a man who just received a delightful surprise.

My father, who has begun to pick himself up whilst coughing his lungs out and picking out shards of glass from his arms, doesn't notice the Peacekeepers quite yet. In fact, he doesn't look up until he hears their voice.

"Gadget Edison. It's taken years, but you are under arrest for your countless crimes against the District 3 Government and the almighty Capitol!" The man calls out. My father looks up at him, suddenly alert but knowingly defeated. The other Peacekeepers close in on him, readying themselves to apprehend him. Apparently, my father, has other plans. He takes one of the

Peacekeepers off guard by smashing into them, possibly the stupidest decision I've ever seen someone make. He begins to run, a heavy limp evident as he tries to evade the crowd.

I expect to see the Peacekeepers make an immediate response, to chase him down and tackle him to the floor, especially since he isn't moving that fast. The one in charge however, doesn't do so much as bat an eye. He simply turns to the other Peacekeepers, face blank as can be.

"Kill him," he commands.

"No!" My mother cries out, appearing beside me. I don't know how to react, or respond, it's basically hopeless. All I can do, is watch as the Peacekeeper that my father barged into, draws out a marksman rifle, before pulling the trigger. An ear-splitting sound is what follows, as the bullet fires from the rifle. I watch numbly, as the bullet pierces my father's neck, ripping through it and bringing out blood and flesh on the other side.

The scene is silent, as my father emits a croaking sound, his final breath, before the force of the bullet brings him crashing down to the ground, his body skidding a couple of feet. All I see, is my father's blank, lifeless eyes, and the steady flow of blood that pours from is open neck. All I hear, is my mother's horrifying shriek, her sorrowful wail as she stands there in peril. All I can think about, is how this is my fault. I got my own father killed.

* * *

 _Preponderate : /_ prɪˈpɒndəreɪt/

(pre-pon-der-ate)

be greater in number, influence, or importance.

 _"the advantages preponderate over this apparent disadvantage"_

* * *

 **Caeso Lumen**

 **~15~**

 **District 3**

I yawn, putting down the textbook to rub my weary eyes. The immediate area underneath my eyes is uncomfortably sore, and I already know why that is. No doubt is it due to my lack of sleep. I've basically got permanent bags under my eyes, ones that grow more purple the sleepier I get. Pulling all-nighter's is really starting to take its toll.

Despite my reluctance, I draw back the shades slightly, the bright light seeping into the room the more I do so. It hits my eyes with full force, causing me to cry out with despair. I feel as if I've been blinded momentarily, before my eyes adjust and I can see once again. When I look outside, I groan loudly, seeing the gloomy day has finally come to life. People exit their houses, all appearing solemn and grim.

I didn't sleep all night again, and now I already have to go to this Reaping. It's not normal that I'm ignoring this constant fatigue just to stay up late at night. Sometimes I feel burdened to have been born in District 3, where they value knowledge and academics more so than physical activity, and in my case, health. When 80% of the population is naturally holding a genius gene, it's easy to fade into the background. The work at school is harder, and the importance of intellect is incredibly high, especially when entering the Hunger Games. It's the only thing any of the District 3 tributes ever have going for them. More often than not, we die, it's as simple as that. But when we win, it's because the tribute got through with their wit and intelligence.

Our most recent Victor, Newton Tillford, won the Quarter Quell because the twist forced him into an alliance with Ceres Powell, the District 5 girl. They won, because their combined intelligence outsmarted the other tributes. Now look at them, the two fell in love and are in a relationship. Sometimes things do work out for us District 3 folk.

Me on the other hand, unlike that 80% of the population, I'm nothing special. I am as ordinary and boring as you can get. All I have going for me is my determination and commitment to my studies. I'm by no means stupid, or dim witted, but I don't have the privilege of understanding everything off the bat. I have to work hard to do well, hence, pulling all-nighter's to study and improve my already mediocre knowledge. It's so easy to be overshadowed by the prodigies, that sometimes I forget what it's like to simply sit back, relax, and not worry so much.

I fully draw the shades back, before switching off the lamp. It's best that I get ready, I'll return to my studies when I get home. I'm about to get off my bed, when the door slams open, making a thud when it hits the wall. I jump at the sudden occurrence, startled by the loud sounds it emits. Staying frozen, I watch as the person responsible enters my room. The person is my mother Telle Lumen, a short skinny woman, with a boyish figure, and fairly short hair that just fall short of her shoulders. She folds her arms, face pulled up in a look of frustration as she glares intently at me.

"Again?" She asks flatly. I swallow, before glancing down at the floor guiltily.

"No," I lie.

"Caeso, you're a horrible liar, I can see the bags under your eyes," she sighs, shaking her head.

"Those are always there," I argue.

"They are worse! And they're always there because you spend so much time staying awake during the night! Don't you understand this?" She yells.

"Of course I understand," I reply.

"You obviously don't Caeso, otherwise you would learn from it and get some proper rest. It's not healthy!" She calls out with concern.

"Don't you want me to do well in school? Like all the other kids?" I question her.

"This isn't the way to do it. You need to get out and socialize, catch up with your friends, just get out of the house!" She reasons. I don't reply after this, simply because my mom doesn't know the truth. I've never really been vocal about it, but in a sense, I've drifted away from the friends I had made in my younger years. I lost interest when I realized I needed to focus more on my studies, when I wasn't doing as well as them even though we both did the same amount of effort.

I never told my mother that I lost those friends, all she knows is that I started seeing them less and less. I choose not to tell her, because all it would do is add on to her concern for my social wellbeing.

She slumps her shoulders, obviously disappointed by my lack of a response. Before she says anything else, a deeper voice can be heard from further down the corridor.

"Telle, leave her alone, let her be the way she wants to be. What good will hassling her bring?" My father Huxley Lumen says defensively. A few seconds later, he appears behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

"Can't you see she is happy like this? Why force her to do things she obviously isn't interested in doing?" He asks.

"Look at her Hux, it's not healthy to have such an anti-social lifestyle!" Her voice rings with uncertainty.

"Mom you worry to much, it'll make you age quicker. It's the way I live, just accept it," I tell her. She closes her eyes softly, breathing deeply before reopening them and finding me with her vision. I am not immediately certain on how she will respond to what I said, but it's rather passive compared to what she has said to me in past lectures.

"This. . . staying up all night business, needs to stop. I'm serious Caeso," she warns me, before making her way down the hall. I sigh, the feeling of disappointing my mother filling my heart with self-loathing. I hate it, it feels so wrong. My thoughts soon become distracted, by the feeling of the mattress sinking lower, as a heavier body joins my company by sitting beside me. I look up as my father wraps an arm around my shoulders, looking at me warmly as I glance up at him.

"I wish she didn't care so much," I say timidly. He can't help but chuckle in response, as he squeezes my shoulder playfully.

"Appreciate it, it's because she loves you Caeso, and she cares for you," he informs me.

"Sometimes she has a funny way of showing it," I mutter bitterly. He shakes his head, obviously disagreeing with my statement.

"Be thankful for your mother, some people aren't as lucky to have such loving family members," he encourages.

"Why should I be thankful for her?" I challenge him. I wait for a response, but I don't get one. When I look up at him, he stares down glumly at my bedsheets, face appearing rather blank. Suddenly, I start to feel ashamed, seeing my father look so down. Did I upset him? I didn't mean to, I just got angry. I'm about to ask if there is something wrong, when he finally speaks up.

"Did I ever tell you about your Grandmother?" He asks softly. The question confuses me, as it's such a random thing to bring up. Regardless, I shake my head in response, knowing that he has never delved into the story of his mother.

"She lost her sister in her teen years, apparently, they were really close. It wasn't from sickness, but it was because she was Reaped, and sent into the 8th Hunger Games," he explains. My eyes widen, not expecting this information. I have a relative that perished in the Hunger Games?

I've never been directly affected by the Hunger Games itself, I've never lost someone to it. I always have tried to avoid the Hunger Games, in fact I've never really watched it. I've never had to see someone die from the Games, all I've ever seen is the person that comes out alive, always worse for wear. So, knowing that my Grandmother experienced seeing her sister get murdered, I cannot imagine what that must be like.

"She never properly recovered mentally, and she turned into a truly vile woman. I tried to love her, but she would never love me. She died early in her life, all with a broken heart and a cold soul," he finishes off. I'm rather silent, not knowing how to respond to such a story. I never realised how hard my father tried to have a bond with his mother, only to have her turn out in such a way. I suppose that was his intention with telling me that story after all.

He stands up, patting the top of my head as he turns to leave the room. The cliché thing to do would be to call out for him to stop him before he leaves the room, and say something to let him know I have gotten his message, and will try to change up my act, but I don't do any of that. I allow him to exit the room, before he closes the door softly behind him.

He probably has left to give me time to reflect on what he said, but unfortunately for him, I have almost no time to do such a thing. I got ready a couple of hours ago, when I needed a half hour break from my studies, so there is no need to worry about a shower or clothes. I reach over to my bedside table, grabbing my pair of square rimmed glasses. I plant them on my face, blinking a couple of times to get used to the vision change.

I race for the door, but as I reach out for the door handle, it swings open barely missing my face. I almost slam into a larger person, who I initially believe to be my father once again. However, when I back away, I get a good look at his face. It's my seventeen-year-old brother, Jarvis Lumen, grinning at me toothily as he watches my startled face.

"What the hell Jarvis, do you mind?" I spit angrily, shoving his chest which fails to move him even an inch. He laughs heartily, ruffling my hair which he knows I hate.

"Personally, little sister, no I really don't mind. It seems you do however," he answers, like the smart a** he is.

"Well, I'm not in the mood," I grunt through gritted teeth.

"Staying up again, huh? I heard from the other side of the house," he informs me.

"I'm surprised you weren't out partying with your hundreds of friends," I mutter.

"Are you kidding me? I would much rather be doing that, but everyone is too afraid of the Reaping to enjoy themselves. Bunch of p*** if you ask me," he states.

"How do you do it?" I ask. He looks at me with an expression of interest, a curve becoming prominent in the corner of his mouth, forming a smirk.

"Do what?" He asks with curiosity.

"Let's face it, you're about as smart as me, you're nothing special," I tell him. He feints a look of hurt on his face.

"Well thanks, I appreciate that," he says sarcastically.

"The point is, how do you tolerate that? You continue to socialise and not do as well as all of the genius Einstein kids," I accuse jealously. He sighs, leaning back against the door frame and smiling smugly at me.

"Caeso, it's because I don't care. Why stress yourself when you could enjoy life? Otherwise, it ends too short," he informs me. I'm taken aback by how he responds, it's full of a genuine tone, that leads me to believe he is telling the absolute truth. He really doesn't care? How can anyone not just care how well they do academically? It's beyond me, I cannot wrap my head around it at all.

Jarvis gives me a small smile, before patting me on the shoulder.

"Now, for what I actually came her for. It's time to leave for the Town Square. Another year of slaughter awaits us," he says, putting on an inspirational voice as he leads me down the hallway. I cannot help but shake my head at his statement. It won't be for everyone, because I can guarantee that I won't be witnessing the slaughter this year, next year, or any year for that matter. I never will.

* * *

 **Byte Edison**

 **~15~**

 **District 3**

My mother wasn't conscious for that much longer after my father was executed. She had stumbled into me, collapsing as she fainted. I was forced to snap out of my stupor, and catch her in my feeble arms, with the sudden realisation that my own flesh and blood had just been murdered.

I always disliked my father, he was the worst person in my life, although there weren't many people around in my life either. But he was always the villain, and how badly he affected it will haunt me to the day I die. Every day, I will carry the burden of a struggling life, all due to how much our family was held back when my father was around. Yet, what may be worse, is the knowledge that I was indirectly responsible for my father's death.

Don't get me wrong, I won't mourn his death. It won't directly affect me in any way in terms of losing someone I cared for, because the reality is that I never cared for him. But I got a person killed, and that's what will hold me down. I was the one, who pushed him out of that window. I was the one that pushed him into the path of the Peacekeepers. I was the one, who caused the events to unfold. If I had simply pushed him aside rather than through that damn window, then perhaps, he would still be alive now.

What I'm really concerned for though, is my mother's wellbeing. Somehow, despite the horrid way he treated her in these recent years, she couldn't bring herself to hate him, to loathe him. She always felt an attachment to this man, and I will never pin point how or why. Now that this man has been executed in front of her very eyes, she will be ruined. She will weep, she will mourn, and she will never stop feeling the sorrow.

I'm all she has left, and what makes me absolutely infuriated, is the fact that I can't even be with her in this hard time. She was taken to a nearby shelter, where she could regain her consciousness and recover from the traumatic experience. After attempting to follow her limp form as she was dragged away by Peacekeepers, I was stopped by the remaining men in white armour. Of course, these b*** couldn't allow this fifteen-year-old eligible child accompany his sick mother, no, they had to make me turn towards the Town Square, and follow the mindless crowd.

That brings me back to the present. I shuffle along the road, void of any vehicles, yet filled to the brink with people. My head faces down, solemn and blank as I reflect on the events that just occurred. I barely lift my feet as I take each step, which causes me to hear the scraping of my shoes on the rough asphalt road. My arms barely swing, they are rigid at my side with a refusal to move.

I can't help but close my eyes, wishing for all of this to end, wishing that it never happened. I've never felt so lonely in my life, it's as if I've lost contact with everyone I've ever known.

The street is infuriatingly silent, with not so much as a cough being audible. Not one person says a word, as everyone trudges in their own conserved space. It wasn't that loud before the incident of the public execution, but ever since, there hasn't been one word spoken. It doesn't help that many in the crowd stare at me, as they saw me as the one that pushed the man out of the window. I don't know how they see me, as a monster, as a hero, it could be either.

All I really want, is the attention to be away from me, and for once it seems as if luck is on my side. We have finally reached the Town Square, a large gloomy area surrounded by industrialised factories that emit fountains of black smog. How delightful.

I stand in the line to get my attendance checked off, the wait being ten times more agonising than it has been in past years. To say that the crowd is just as silent as they were in the street is an understatement. The street had been louder than this, now it's just dull and dead. It's as if the atmosphere of the Reaping location has sucked out everyone's enthusiasm and energy, replacing it with dread and fear. Then again, this happens every year. It's hardly new.

What is new, is myself receiving a light tap on the shoulder. I turn around slowly, my energy non-existent after what I have endured today. I spot a girl, relatively similar to my age, with a thin wispy body, an olive complexion, long walnut coloured hair, and a particularly cute set of large doe eyes. I somehow recognise her, despite not ever speaking to her before, which is expected as District 3 is a fairly large District for population numbers. Judging by her clothing, I would say she is from the same part of town as me, that being Downtown Three. Her clothes are musty and fairly ancient looking, I'm sure by all means that this was the best her family could provide her with.

"Yes?" I ask quietly, not wanting to speak too loudly as anyone could probably hear a pin drop in this unsettling silence.

"Were you the boy whose father was executed?" She asks. Now I remember her, she was the girl that was directly outside of the window when I pushed my father through it, she was about to walk past. At first, I'm slightly taken aback by how calm and. . . monotone, she sounds when asking such a sinister question. It gives the picture that she has seen some devilish things in her life time. Then again, I'm not surprised since she is living in a crime rampant part of District 3, well at least I presume she does.

"Uh, yeah, that's me," I respond, even quieter than before. It's not because she has just asked me such a touchy question, but more so because the fact that the news of the execution has spread so far is slightly daunting.

"I was walking past your apartment just before you pushed him out of the window. I heard everything, and I wanted to say what you did was heroic, and I highly respect you for that," she informs me, smiling slightly at the end. I know she was, she should know that I know, we locked eye contact.

"Thanks," I reply, rather disheartened. Rather than continuing to speak to this girl, I turn around awkwardly, reflecting over what she just told me.

 _I shouldn't be getting commended, what I did got a man killed._

There is no doubt that my expression would be coming across as troubled. I cannot help but fail to shake away the uneasy feeling that I have, from getting called heroic for what I did. It's not right, and I almost have the motivation to turn around and correct the girl, by telling her what I really should be getting. Looks of disgust.

However, before I can even consider doing that, I hear a dull voice call out the word "Next." Stepping forward, I notice how shaky and sickly my body feels. I'm still shaken up by the death, but I have to push through, I have to be strong for my mother. I step up to the desk, where I simply put out my hand for the Peacekeeper to jam the device on my finger. Although usually they do it quickly and rather painfully, I'm rewarded with the Peacekeeper softly guiding my finger into the device.

"Just stay still, it'll be over quickly," the woman informs me. I nod my head knowingly in response.

"Yes, I kn- Ow!" I gasp as I hear the high-pitched ding, followed by a prick to my finger that causes pain to ripple down my hand and into my wrist.

"All done, you're free to go," the woman informs me, before a man standing beside her roughly grabs my shoulder and pushes me forward. I stumble a few steps, managing to prevent myself from flying into the row of people in front of me. Straightening myself up, and brushing myself off, I try to play it off as I take slow steps, whilst trying to locate my age section.

Not much longer after, I spot the sign that reads 'Fifteen-Year-Olds', leading me to follow the direction of that sign. Unfortunately, it appears that I was one of the last batch to make it through. The section is almost packed to the brim, the only vacant standing spots remaining being right at the back, where I struggle to see the stage. I knew I needed glasses.

"Excuse me," I say softly, trying to move into the tiny space left. Not many people seem to notice, most appear to be too focused on the Reaping that is about to begin. However, one girl notices, waving lightly to gain my attention before stepping to her right to make room for me. I mouth her a brief 'thank you', before claiming the standing space next to her.

"Don't mention it, I'm not too big on asking people to move either," she says with a shy smile. Oh god, this is not something I need right now. More social interactions. I'm tempted to ignore this girl, but as I get a better look of her, I notice that she doesn't seem to be the most extroverted of people. In fact, she kind of reminds me of myself, with her awkward posture, and her brief and squeaky sort of dialogue.

So, I don't ignore her, instead I attempt to smile back at her, giving a slight nod. She examines me for a moment, before chuckling with somewhat amusement.

"Squinting to see the stage huh? Lucky I have my glasses, seeing as I'm short sighted," she says in a hushed tone. Perhaps I misjudged, this girl doesn't seem to want to quit talking. In all honesty, I see this one-sided conversation leading nowhere, so I'm not sure why she continues to speak, with as awkward as she is. I was better off talking to the other girl in the line before.

Thankfully, for my sake, both of our attention is drawn to the stage, as a smattering of light applause, one that is customary, graces the ever so silent atmosphere of the Town Square. Although it's difficult to see them properly from so far away, I can still make out which Victor is which from here. First to walk onto the stage is our oldest living Victor, Harvard Prince who won the 29th Hunger Games. Following closely behind him is Beetee Latier, Victor of the 39th Hunger Games, who shuffles at a slower speed as he carefully leads an oblivious Wiress Plummer, Victor of the 48th Hunger Games. Last of all, is our most recent and only other living Victor, Newton Tillford, who won the 75th Hunger Games, the Quarter Quell. Yep, four living Victors out of our total of five.

Next comes our mayor, Mayor Circuit. If I'm being honest, he looks a little worse for wear. He appears ten times more stressed than usual, and even more tired and aged. Perhaps he is just tired of us constantly disappointing our District. He shuffles over to the microphone, tapping it a couple of times to test it before coughing into his fist, in order to clear his phlegm riddled throat.

"Good afternoon, fellow citizens of District 3. Welcome once again, to our highly anticipated annual Reaping," he croaks, sounding worn and quiet.

"Usually, I will give you a sufficient speech. Unfortunately, today I'm feeling rather ill, so I'll be forced to speed things up!" He tries to sound enthusiastic, but he couldn't sound further from it.

"Allow me to introduce our lovely Escort, Irenell Fosentye!" He calls out in a husky voice. He steps away from the microphone to take his seat, while the crowd delivers a polite round of applause. Irenell prances onto the stage, waving and pointing at people in the less than energetic crowd. Irenell always overdoes the Reaping, my theory is that she is either trying to ramp up our spirits, or put on a show for the Capitolites.

She grabs the microphone out of its stand, so she can walk around the stage freely. I prepare my ears as she raises the microphone uncomfortably close to her mouth, one of her consistent pet peeves.

"District 3! How are we all doing today!" Irenell calls out, before bending towards the crowd and holding a hand to her ear, mimicking that she wants to hear our response. All she receives is a low hum of murmurs as people take the opportunity to groan.

"That's swell! I've been so excited for this day since the 79th Hunger Games ended, and now we finally have arrived! Isn't that brilliant?" She gushes, causing many to nod reluctantly.

"Great! So I've been practically _dying_ to know who I will be selecting out of these two bowls in these recent months, so shall we get started?" She asks, referring to the crowd. Many people are throwing her dirty looks, which she somehow doesn't seem to notice.

"That wasn't in good taste, people are dying here of starvation and she has the nerve to say that?" The girl beside me whispers. I don't respond, in fact I try to pretend I didn't even hear her. Instead, I pay attention to Irenell, who almost skips towards the female bowl.

"Of course, ladies first, as per usual," she giggles, before quickly dipping her hand inside, and plucking out a single slip of paper.

"Who is ready?" Irenell asks giddily, as she shakes the slip of paper around for the entirety of the crowd to see. I just want her to get on with this, I have to get back to my mother. Irenell unfolds the slip, before making a show of covering her mouth in surprise, as if she knew the person she just read the name of.

"Well, it seems that District 3's female tribute for the 80th Annual Hunger Games is. . . Caeso Lumen!"

Silence. Silence is all that there is, as Irenell's voice echoes distantly throughout the Town Square. I'm not sure what I was expecting, perhaps a wail, a shout, someone to be crying their eyes out. Nothing of the sorts happens, instead, people are left to look around, waiting to see some movement, or for Caeso to emerge from the crowd. Everybody wants to see the doomed girl.

Now out of my own curiosity, I glance around for that movement. I look at the girl beside me, expecting an input from her, however she is dead silent. In fact, now is when I properly look at her, for one specific reason.

Firstly, she has a round face, rather void of any blemishes but with a couple dots of freckles on the bridge of her nose. Dull shoulder length brown hair is what makes up the top of her head, with side bangs that fall to her shoulders. She has a straight, wiry figure and an olive complexion that is relatively easy to find in this District. Also like most others in District 3, she is accompanied with round, close-set brown eyes, the type that are so dark that they could come across as black. She's roughly an average height, and has dark bags under her eyes from what I presume is a restless night, as well as squared glasses that she went on about before.

The thing that captures my attention however, is how still she is. Her eyes are wider than usual, while her face has become disturbingly pale, almost a sickly color as if she had come down with the flu. She has started to sweat profusely, yet makes no effort to wipe it away. It's only when I speak, does she snap out of her stupor and look at me.

"Hey, are you okay?" I ask, lightly tapping her shoulder.

* * *

 **Caeso Lumen**

 **~15~**

 **District 3**

I look into the boy's eyes, as I feel his hand lightly graze my shoulder. I make an effort to keep my breathing steady, and not make it as obvious that I am downright terrified. My skin crawls with goose bumps, while constant shivers run up and down my spine. I'm doomed, I'm so screwed.

I clench my eyelids shut, before opening them once again to focus. My raspy, and unsteady breathing is what I take care of next, now I make sure to get it under control. I let out a series of long breaths, all with a sufficient time between each breath. Keeping a controlled breathing pattern is one way to calm oneself down.

What did the boy say? Am I okay was it? I open my mouth, attempting to respond, however all that comes out is a choked gurgling sound.

"Wait a minute. . ." He mutters, scratching his head. No, I need to go, I need to show some sort of confidence, when has a tribute ever won for legitimately coming across as weak? Johanna only pretended, but I _am_ weak. The least I can do is put on a facade, so I'm not instantly passed off as an easy target.

"I'm fine," I reply in a shrill voice. I glance down at the floor, huffing in a deep breath of preparation.

"I've just, got to go now," I continue, before beginning to push my way through. I see the boy's eyes widen in surprise, as he is hit with full realization that I am the Caeso Lumen that Irenell just reaped. Upon moving forward, others begin to notice, and as if I have the plague, they all begin to distance themselves from me, not at all wanting to associate themselves with this burdened girl.

It's a long walk up, full of dread and worry. I avert my eyes from looking at people, knowing that I'll likely have a panic attack upon seeing the thousands of staring eyes. Instead, I keep my eyesight glued to the ground, concentrating on keeping my body and mind calm and collected.

In the back of my mind, I long for someone to call out those sacrificial words of 'I volunteer', but I know they'll never come. This is District 3, and the last time we would have had a volunteer, more than half of the population wouldn't have even been born.

A perk to having everyone distance themselves as much as possible, is the easy made path for me to walk through. Now I don't verbally have to ask anyone to move. So once I have walked through the long section full of fellow fifteen year-olds, I'm able to stumble out to the front. I look up at Irenell, blinking back the unease my eyes may show. It's safe to say she appears thoroughly disappointed with the tribute that she has selected. To be honest, I'm not really sure what she was expecting, this is District 3 after all, it's a rarity to ever get someone physically capable. Unfortunately, she didn't really get someone who is intellectually capable either, she got someone mediocre at that.

I look away as I walk towards the stairs, eventually reaching them and making my way up to the elevated stage. With each new step, more of the crowd becomes visible, therefore making me feel more sick. I hope I don't vomit, that would be the worst possible impression I could make. Despite my bottled-up sickness and emotions however, I somehow manage to make it to the middle of the stage without any major hiccups.

Irenell appears to have regained her enthusiastic fake act, and welcomes me with open arms.

"Come here dear, congratulations for what impeccable opportunities you have just received!" She cries out. I gulp, as she raises the microphone to my mouth. I made the mistake of looking out over the crowd, and now I watch all of the eyes staring at me, waiting to hear a comment about my unspeakable doom.

"Thanks," I manage to squeak, my voice sounding as if I just inhaled helium. It's so unbelievably high with nerves right now, my stage fright is beginning to kick into top gear.

"So Caeso, what do you have to comment on this commendable role?" Irenell asks, trying to get as much out of me as she can before I somehow faint. I can't stop the shaking now, it's as if I'm a leaf in a strong breeze, my body feels the need to move constantly. I can't do this, I tried, but it's not in my nature. I'm too frightened, I feel absolutely frozen in place.

My lips are parted slightly, which apparently leads Irenell to believe I'm about to answer her question, so she once again raises the microphone to my mouth. My eyes begin to water, as I see the expressions from the crowd. Sympathy. Relief. Boredom.

 _I'm making a horrible impression. I'm gonna die, I'm going to DIE._

What is meant to be an attempted response, turns into a series of choking sounds. The wheezes I release signify my absolute failure of being able to function properly with all this attention on me, and they continue to come out every time I aim to speak. Why can't I make coherent sentences?!

"Well, it looks like dear Caeso here is still a little too over the moon with her selection, so we shall get back to her at a later date fellow Capitolites! In the meantime, let's see who shall be accompanying Caeso in the Capitol, and who she will be facing off against in the arena!" Irenell comes to the rescue with distracting everyone watching, and drawing the attention to her and the idea of another new tribute.

As soon as she begins to trot over to the boy's bowl, my hyper active mental breakdown begins to come to a rest. My chest is still fluttery and numb; however, my breathing feels more consistent and calm. I make sure to subtly wipe any remnants of unspilled tears from my eyes, before paying attention to Irenell.

I hold my breath as she lowers her hand towards the bowl, and the crowd appear to do the same. Fortunately for me, not one pair of eyes seems to be focused on myself. I never thought I would be saying this, but I hope someone strong gets chosen. I hope someone formidable gets chosen. I hope someone so smart that they are basically a super computer gets chosen. All I want, is a tribute that is so impressive, that people don't pay any attention to me. So that I can fade into the background, and perhaps somehow float along until the Finale.

My eyes lock onto the slip of paper that Irenell plucks off the top. She doesn't go in deep, she doesn't ruffle around the slips as she tries to find the 'right feeling' one, but she chooses the slip on the very top. As she unfolds it, I cannot help but lean in, trying to see if I can read the slip. Unfortunately, the words are too fuzzy for me to read, despite my glasses. Perhaps they are just too small?

Irenell walks back to the middle of the stage, where she grabs the microphone and raises it to her mouth. She gives a brief pause, in order for everyone to experience the tense moment, before she calls out the unlucky fellow.

"District 3's other tribute for this year is. . . Byte Edison!"

Despite the shock I had endured when I initially heard Irenell's voice call out my name, I could still comprehend that everyone had gone silent, waiting for the person, aka me, to react to the fatal line. It's very much the same thing that has occurred now, with a quiet crowd that searches silently for any sign of the boy, known as Byte. Luckily for me, it wasn't Jarvis that was selected. I cannot help but feel a tingle of guilt for not even fearing for his potential of being the name on that slip, although he is probably focused on my own name being the one that was drawn.

Finally, I see movement from fairly far back, once again coming from the fifteen-year-old section. The crowd parts as who I presume to be Byte comes increasingly close. He appears to be taking his time, just like I had been doing. The fact that he is fifteen and he is more than unwilling to come up here isn't any good sign for Irenell, or District 3. At long last, Byte stumbles out to the front, with all eyes on him. I cannot help but gasp.

Byte is a very skinny boy, with stick like arms that are struck still at his side. He has a fairly oval shaped face, almost looking like a circle, with a seemingly permanent grimace and mysterious dark brown eyes, the kind that appear black like mine. His hair is a rich chocolate sort of brown in color, and is thick and oily as if it hasn't been washed recently. His clothes back up that assumption, as he looks like he has gone shopping in a clothes shop where everything has a layer of grime over it. Despite his scowl and mysterious eyes, they are glazed over enough to make him look like he is on the verge of tears, which he manages to hide quickly enough with what appears to be him wiping the sweat off his brow.

The thing that is most shocking however, is that he is the boy that was with me at the back of the section. He was the one I was speaking to, the one that asked me if I was okay, the one that tapped my shoulder. How on Earth has it happened like this? How have we both been condemned to the same fate?

Byte stands still for a second as soon as he gets out of the crowd, before glancing up at the members of the stage. He examines Irenell, before making eye contact with me. He is so gloomy, it's as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looks away, before trudging towards the stairs and getting up them at an excruciating rate. When he reaches the middle, Irenell jumps right on board with trying to finish this Reaping off.

"Welcome up here Byte! You're not so delighted that you can't speak as well are you?" Irenell asks, poking fun at my inability to speak earlier. She holds the microphone out, anticipating a response from Byte.

"I-I can speak, I suppose," he murmurs, which the microphone struggles to pick up.

"Ah, so we've got a quiet one! Don't worry too much about that Byte, sometimes those types of tributes are the most deadly," she informs him, trying to raise his spirits.

"Perhaps so," he replies, slightly louder than before. Wow, he has just been dragged through the mud. My observations from earlier tell me he was acting similar, maybe his life is just that hard? I cannot help but feel bad for Byte, and knowing that he must die for me to make it out makes it all the more difficult.

"So how are you feeling Byte? Are you excited?" Irenell asks. It seems that she is taking advantage of Byte's slight more willingness to speak, although she doesn't get as much out of him as any Escort would hope. Byte glances at her, before responding to her question.

"In all honesty, I'm not doing so gre-"

"And would you look at that, we are out of time!" Irenell interrupts Byte, drawing the microphone away from him and back to herself. Of course she didn't want him being vocal about his dismay of being Reaped, the Capitol wouldn't like that.

"Let's shake hands you two, as is tradition of course," Irenell instructs politely, as she turns as to face each other. I look into Byte's eyes, but he refuses to look at me. Instead, he glances down at the ground, before sticking out his hand reluctantly. I softly take it, before he gives it one hard shake and let's go of my fingers.

To both of our dismay, Irenell grabs each of our hands, before raising them into the sky.

"District 3, I give you your two tributes for the 80th Annual Hunger Games! Caeso Lumen, and Byte Edison!" She squeals excitedly, grinning at the camera. The crowd responds with a feeble attempt at applause, before Irenell drops our hands and leads us away to the Peacekeepers. I manage to spot Byte glaring at one, appearing to recognize him. The man grabs his shoulder, attempting to guide him to the Justice Building, but Byte violently shakes his hand off.

"Get off me," he snarls, before storming ahead and causing more Peacekeepers to accompany him. I take a deep breath, as I close my eyes. This is the end.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I'm back again with our next two tributes, Caeso Lumen and Byte Edison, submitted by** _VeneratedArt_ **and** _FantasticBeasts713_ **respectively. Like I said, a couple more days and I would have this chapter out! We are getting through these Reaping's, mark my words, in fact we are 1/4th of the way through! Hooray!**

 **So what are your guys thoughts on Byte and Caeso? It was a pretty extreme chapter yes, specifically the whole domestic abuse and execution thing. I'm not going to lie, this was an expansion on the family dynamic originally on the form, so tell me what you think! Of course I would love your guys input on other stuff, who is your favorite? How far do you think they'll make it? All the good stuff, it really helps to see your guys input, and a lot of the time it can affect the story!**

 **A few people were concerned last chapter about Princess/Diamond not exactly wanting to go into the games, and being hesitant to kill and such, so let me just say you don't need to worry about her being that stereotypical Career that volunteers but doesn't want to kill people and instead wants to fight the Capitol, because she is not. It was a last-minute nerves situation, that many people have, before a final exam for example, the difference being that she loves the idea of the games. I added it to show her attachment of not wanting to leave her family, and that being the sole reason she was hesitant. Plus, it contrasted greatly to Achilles' total lack of emotion, and therefore lack of nerves and fear. She is just as much as one of the Careers willing to kill from District 2 as most Careers are.**

 **That brings me to the end of the chapter! District 4 will take longer, as I had most of this chapter finished when I posted District 2, but expect it soon-ish. Props to everyone that picks up my little GoT Easter Eggs, you guys are amazing! I don't believe I put any in this chapter however ha ha! See you in District 4!**


	7. District 4: Nixxie and Kenn

**Reaping IV**

* * *

 _Contrived : /kənˈtrʌɪ_ _vd_ _/_

(con-tri-vd)

deliberately created rather than arising naturally or spontaneously.

 _"that vote was contrived"_

* * *

 **Kenn Pellegrino**

 **~17~**

 **District 4**

Sun, sand, swimming, what more is there to ask for? It's the perfect day for District 4, and that's why I'm enjoying it to the fullest extent. I can hear the waves crashing violently over each other, and the seagulls screeching at a distance. The sun beats down on the sand, tanning all of the people on the beach. The smell of sea salt is prominent in the air, making my nose tingle as I take it in.

The only thing is, about half of that is true for me. I can only assume it is the perfect day, as I see a little bit of sunlight creeping in from behind the shades of my bedroom. I do indeed hear the waves and seagulls through the open window, and I know for a fact that I would have the sun beating down on me as well, if I was out there. The scent of the beach of course carries through the air that blows into the open window, so I technically wasn't lying.

However, if anyone was to be expecting me to start off my story being a stereotypical District 4 citizen, by swimming in the cool aquatic beaches of my District, they are undeniably mistaken. To be quite frank, nobody should really be on the beach right now, seeing as the Reaping is in under less than an hour. It's stupid if I'm being honest, just because there is a beach, doesn't mean _I'll_ be swimming in it on Reaping Day.

What I am actually doing, is laying down on my cushiony bed, sprawled out as I try to keep myself cool in the aggressive District 4 heat. My eye lids pretty much have weights on them, and my own mind is groggy and weary, struggling to comprehend much right now. To be fair, I woke up around thirty seconds ago, so understandably I am still in bed.

I groan as I uncomfortably shift for a new position, the one I'm currently resting in being too sweaty and hot. I want to be able to sleep more, but I probably need to get up. Begrudgingly, I open my eyes to see the dark room, only lit subtly by the outside light. My covers are crumpled and stuffed at the end of my bed, banished from my body in this exhausting heat. Many people wish they could live in the sun and surf of District 4, to enjoy the tropical heat and the beautiful people. I honestly can't stand it half the time.

My mother certainly was one of those people, seeing as she somehow found herself immigrating to this unfathomably glorious District. My mother, Lorraine Pellegrino, used to belong to District 6. She was an engineer, working on high speed bullet trains, as simple as that. The story goes that she was working, when the train took off without knowledge of her being on board. The train arrived in District 4, and she was so breath taken by the beauty of our District that she stayed.

I'm certain they monitor their trains intently, so how she managed to pull it off is truly a miracle. But hey, if she didn't, I wouldn't even be here. Some things I just have to be thankful for. I wonder sometimes if that was a lie, and that she wanted to escape her life in District 6. She never mentions her family back in her place of origin, and despite my curiosity, will never mention anything of the sorts. All I can do is wonder.

So, seeking a new life in this bountiful haven that she has stumbled upon, my mother ran into a local fisherman whilst searching for a job. That fisherman was Corentin Pellegrino, my father. Thus, the rest of the story unfolds. Here I am, their son Kenn Pellegrino. What do I have to hold to my mother's crazy adventurous story?

Nothing really. All I've ever achieved is attention for my uncommon look in this District. My mother of course holds the traditional District 6 raven black, wavy long hair, fair skin, and exhilarating SKY blue eyes. To my dismay, I have inherited my mother's old District's traditional hair trait, of having an unfitting set of coal black locks on top of my hair, as well as her breathtaking eyes. Seeing as being blonde is the norm here, I've inevitably copped ridicule and snarky remarks about my rather unremarkable hair color. Apparently, it's _so_ out of place that people find it amusing and necessary to point out.

Fortunately for me, they don't discriminate for looks in the Academy when selecting a volunteer. All they think about, is who is suitable enough to become District 4's tribute. It's a high honor in District 4, unlike in District 2 where they do it for the sake of killing, or District 1 where they volunteer for the opportunity of becoming famous and loved by the Capitol.

As most in District 4, I have trained from a young age in case I was to ever be selected for the Hunger Games, in the odd year that there isn't anyone chosen to volunteer, or if I do in fact get chosen to be the one to volunteer. In District 4, our method of selecting our volunteers differ from the other Career District's general format. The members of our Academy vote for who they think is most worthy, and those that accumulate the most votes must prove themselves in a training course, to show that they are worthy. Not trying and purposefully failing results in shunning and shame from the rest of the Academy, and in a lot of people's cases, their families.

What's my story with this? Well, I was voted into the Training Course. It's rather strange that someone that people find to be a joke actually do vote for me, however I suppose the combination of people voting for me simply because they find it funny, and people that genuinely voted for me because they saw me as worthy, ended up working.

In the end, I was unwillingly voted into a contest for a role I truly didn't want, whilst the only way out is to either fail and cop abuse and bullying for the rest of my life, or actually prove myself to enter the Hunger Games. To be fair, it's not that I have anything against being a tribute. I would have preferred to enter next year at the age of eighteen, but unfortunately, I couldn't help that situation. It's more of a fact that I don't really care for the Hunger Games, it's just unnecessary for me to experience. I can enjoy it as much as the next guy from a spectator point of view, but being forced to take part is not my cup of tea. I hate people's cruelty.

So, as I lay in my bed, staring at the shady ceiling above my bed, I reflect on what I must do today. I beat the course, I proved myself to the trainers, and now today I have to volunteer. Despite my hesitance of entering the Hunger Games, I have to look on the bright side. If I had thrown the course on purpose, I would get verbal insults and rotten fruit thrown at me as soon as I leave my house. I pity the girl that it will happen to this year. I heard that the girl that was voted to volunteer this year couldn't prove herself, so now that girl will have to keep a low profile, while someone else gets Reaped in her place.

"Kenn," I mumble to myself, "If you don't get up now, you won't get up at all." I sigh, before thrusting myself up so I'm sitting up on my bed. I blink a couple of times, trying to focus on the dimly lit room. I make out most stuff, a fishing spear leant against my dresser draw, a wooden chest with my valuables resting in the corner of the room, a fishbowl that hosts my pet goldfish, Orange. I know, I'm good with names, very creative.

What my eyes are drawn to however, is my partially finished oil painting. The canvas material rests on a painting stand directly beside my window, from where I left it the last time I worked on it. I cannot help but smile, as I follow the swirls and flow of the blue colors, all morphing into what are the waves. My room has a spectacular view of the ocean, so I often find myself looking out of the window, drawing the scene that I see. I've always had an affinity for art, I suppose spending the time alone helps. It makes me happier than spending time at the academy, not because of the training, but because of the people.

 _I really need to finish off that painting._

I normally would have by now, but of course since it's been the final stretch before the Reaping, everyone has been flat out with last minute training. Especially since I was the one that was voted to volunteer, I've had no choice but to rework my schedule to dedicate what should be my painting time, to train for a Game of killing other kids. Anyone could guess how I would prefer to have my time spent.

"Morning sleepy," a woman's voice says from my now open door. I yawn in response, looking at the woman through squinted eyes.

"Good morning dearest mother," I reply jokingly, giving her a smug smile. She fully opens the door, entering the room and sitting beside me on my bed. My mother is a very beautiful woman, in fact the black hair makes it. She still looks young, as if she was in her early twenties, with rosy cheeks and fair unblemished skin. Her eyes are a sparkling blue, just like it is back in District 6.

She takes me off guard when she embraces me in a tight hug, as if she was attempting to crush my head against her chest.

"Um, ouch mom," I speak up with a gasp. She lets go instantly, looking at me sympathetically.

"Sorry, it's just I'm so nervous Kenn. This isn't fair, you shouldn't be going," she cries out worriedly. I smile sadly at her, knowing that there is nothing she can do.

"Mom, you're obviously still not accustomed to District 4 after all of these years. It's the highest honor one can receive here," I inform her softly. She frowns, nodding sadly as she tries to accept the inevitable.

"They're all just jealous of you, that's what it is," she says softly. It's safe to say that she blames the people that voted for me, but it's best not to deter her any more by saying that it's nothing of the sorts.

"Perhaps," I lie, putting on a fake smile for her. I lightly take her hand in mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Don't fret too much. I'll make it back home, I swear it," I promise her. She smiles once again, as tears fill her eyes. I hug her, trying to make her more comfortable with the idea of me leaving. There is always the chance that I could come back, but honestly, it's unlikely. The Hunger Games have become significantly harder as they have developed. District 4 had gone from getting multiple consecutive wins, to the odd one every ten years or so. Outer Districts have become more used to the Games, and therefore more capable, meaning that they win more often now. Although in recent years District 1 has dominated the playing field, some of the best tributes I've ever seen have come out of the outer Districts.

I decide not to think too much about it, it will only further worry me before I even volunteer. Once having done so, I can concentrate more on the Game, working out the tributes, and seeing what will get me to the end. I may not be the strongest physically, compared to those of District 1 and 2, but I am skilled, and I am clever. What may be the one thing that holds me above the other Careers, is that I'm not going to go in with swinging swords. I will have to work out the best approach, that will ensure my survival against the top dogs.

I release my mother, before standing up and walking over to my closet.

"I'll meet you outside mom, I'm just going to ready myself," I tell her with my back turned.

"Okay, just don't take too long. We don't need Peacekeepers arriving at our house and discovering we haven't attended," she informs me. I listen as she exits the room, leaving me alone in the humid state that is my bedroom. I hope it's not the last time I ever see this place, but I can say one thing. If I die and anything happens to Orange, I will claw my way out of my dirt filled grave and rip someone apart.

* * *

 _Mute : /mjuːt/_

(mew-t)

refraining from speech or temporarily speechless.

 _"Harry sat mute, his cheeks burning resentfully"_

* * *

 **Nixxie Cascade**

 **~16~**

 **District 4**

"We are wearing blue, end of story," Brooke snarls as she forcefully shoves the dress into Sirena's hands. Sirena angrily throws the dress back into Brooke's face, before bringing forward her preferred option.

"We wore blue last year! I want to wear yellow!" Sirena responds with a hiss, folding her arms stubbornly.

"I'm not wearing yellow because I look bad in it," Brooke refuses, closing her eyes and turning her nose up at the dress.

"That's not fair because I look _good_ in yellow," Sirena replies through gritted teeth. I roll my eyes, laying back down against the pillows of my bed with a yawn. It's the same argument every year. I don't understand why Brooke is assuming that she looks bad in yellow, whilst Sirena looks good, they are both identical to each other, hell, all three of us are identical!

Yes, I am an identical triplet, meaning I always get grouped together with my sisters, Brooke and Sirena. If our personalities represented our appearance, we would be far from identical. Brooke is a bossy, authority based bitch of a girl, deeming herself as the leader of our trio. Sirena is just as, if not, worse than Brooke, always being an angry, rage riddled, snarky girl.

Then there's me, the quiet one, certainly not by choice. Do I ever really get an input on conversations? No, not unless it comes to a tie breaker, such as now. Apparently, we can't wear our own separate dresses for some reason, I don't know why Brooke enforces that upon us. I think it's something to do with if one of us looks ugly, the rest of us will as well. So in her mind, we have to look exactly the same.

"Nixxie, which color? Blue, or yellow?" Brooke asks, trying to put an emphasis on the blue one. The two stare intently at me, waiting for an answer, which certainly won't work in my favor. No matter what I choose, one of them will be pissed off at me. Eventually, I sigh, before pointing at the blue dress. What can I say? I like blue.

"Yes!" Brooke celebrates, whilst Sirena sits on the bed fuming.

"This is bullshit, fuck you Brooke, and fuck you Nixxie for being such a sheep," she spits. I shrug my shoulders, grinning teasingly at her. I can't lie, it's still very amusing to antagonize Sirena.

"Stop sooking, put this on," Brooke demands, before flinging the dress at Sirena's face. Brooke passes the dress to me a lot more calmly, seeing as I helped her out.

 _It wasn't for her sake._

"You guys excited?" Brooke gushes, beaming positively.

"I was, until I got fucked over," Sirena replies glumly. I respond to Brooke by nodding, as I begin to slip into my dress.

"Who is volunteering this year?" Sirena asks. I know the answer to that question, there isn't a volunteer for the girls this year, unless someone truly does desire to. However, there isn't a selected volunteer. There is for the boys though, and from what I've seen it's a rather interesting vote.

"I don't know. Nixxie, do you know?" Brooke asks, glancing at me. I drop the straps of my dress out of annoyance, huffing a breath to show my frustration. These two just want to make my life a nuisance, don't they? I grab my notepad, and a marker that rests beside it, before jotting down the name of the boy that is volunteering. When I turn it to show them, the two express an expression of recognition.

"Kenn Pellegrino? They voted that guy in?" Sirena asks with uncertainty.

"Not bad, he's pretty hot," Brooke comments. Sirena turns to face Brooke in disgust.

"Why him, when there are gorgeous boys with golden curly locks?" Sirena asks.

"Because you don't see black hair here every day, it's unique, it's a change from all the pig headed cocky shits that we usually have to offer," Brooke replies.

"Finnick wasn't like that," Sirena argues.

"He is an exception. I still think whoever gets to go with Kenn would be pretty lucky, I don't care what people say," Brooke huffs. I shake my head, already tired of their conversation. They're focusing on the pettiest thing, what does it matter how attractive someone is when entering the Games? What it's about, is how lethal, how deadly, how cunning, how willing to kill they are. Quite frankly, both Brooke and Sirena are stupid to be focusing on that. If any of them were to be Reaped today, I can't say I believe they would make it past the Bloodbath.

Brooke has a way with words, but would not be able to defend herself physically in the slightest. Sirena can get very angry, and very fired up, but again she cannot express this anger physically. Me on the other hand, I don't need to express my strengths and abilities socially through words, no, I can do it physically, what these two imbeciles fail to realize.

I suppose that's expected when the attention is always on your talkative sisters, when you actually have the time to develop your own thoughts and intellect, and realise the need for physical capabilities is just as necessary as being able to speak your mind.

 _I've had enough of you two idiots for now, I need a break._

Upon thinking this, I stand up abruptly, stalking over to the door. It only takes a second for the two of them to realize what I'm doing.

"Nixxie, where are you going?" Brooke asks. I turn around, stony faced as I raise my middle finger at her. The two of them frown, both their foreheads creasing in disapproval. They know that's my method of saying a basic "fuck you two, I've had enough". I find that I have to use my middle finger more and more often these days.

"What did we do this time?" Sirena calls out after me. Ugh, it's like looking into a mirror, except the reflection is either a stuck-up snob, or an aggressive pessimist. And people say that I drew the short end of the stick with my issue.

In response to Sirena, I slam the door shut, before making my way down the hallway and into the living room. Sometimes, I find myself wondering if I would actually care if either of the two were Reaped. A lot of the time, I just hate them, I want them to leave, I want them to be Reaped. However, when push comes to shove, they are my sisters. I have to care for them, and deep down, I always do.

I know that if either went in, they wouldn't make it out. Hell, I probably wouldn't either. Luckily, none of us would ever get voted to volunteer. Last year we had two voted volunteers enter the Games, and they did pretty well. They both lasted to the Final 10, and the girl lasted until the Final 5. They did so well, because people saw that they were capable and voted for them. This year is a strange story. The female was apparently mediocre at most, and was only voted because people found her attractive and she wanted to go in, and the boy, Kenn, he was just a really strange pick. Somehow, he still made it through, and now he is going into the Games.

When I enter the living room, I spot my father, Dylan Cascade, preparing our After-Reaping Lunch, a whole buffet of barf-worthy seafood. Being someone from District 4, it's quite strange to have a vendetta against seafood. I suppose I was one of the few to get sick of it.

I watch for a moment as he guts the fish, and chops off the heads, before he pokes his head up and spots me. He smiles warmly at me, while I wave lightly at him, pinching my nose with the other to prevent myself smelling the fish.

"Hmm, doesn't like the smell of fish, gives me a polite little wave, it looks like Nixxie has come out to greet me," he speaks up, being able to work out which of the triplet's I am. I chuckle softly, stifling a grin.

"Where are the other two terrors? Still getting ready?" My father asks. I nod my head, whilst rolling my eyes in the process.

"Of course, I didn't even need to ask. Make sure you're all done, we're leaving very shortly, and if you can just tell. . . inform, your sisters that we will be out of here in about ten minutes," he instructs. I nod my head to show I've understood him, giving him a thumbs up to accompany my confirmation.

Before doing that, I decide to head outside, where there is a path to the dock where my father's fishing boat is. Unsurprisingly, the house is rather quiet compared to a few years ago. My mother has always never been around, and not by choice. She passed away when delivering me, I was the third triplet to come out, and the one that killed her. Perhaps it was because we were born premature, and her body wasn't ready for the extremities it would take to give birth to three babies in a row. Regardless, I never got to know her.

My two oldest siblings, fraternal twins named Caspian and Coventina Cascade, are both twenty and have moved out of the house. The same goes for my eighteen year-old angry brother named Sebastian Cascade. He lives with his friends, and this is the last Reaping he will ever be eligible for, not that it matters since Kenn Pellegrino is volunteering.

Aside from my father, Brooke, and Sirena, the only other occupant of the house is my sixteen year-old brother named Indigo. He was born the same year as us, except at the very beginning. Sometimes, I feel as if he is the most normal out of all my siblings, and if I'm being honest, he reminds me of myself. He can be very harsh at times, but in the long run, he is just a defensive and introverted boy.

I find him seated on the end of my father's boat, which my father calls _The Marina,_ named after my mother. He leans against the very tip, with a fishing rod thrown over the side as he watches the distant waves and waits for a bite. I make sure my footsteps are loud enough for him to hear, which causes him to glance over his shoulder.

"Oh, hey Nixxie," Indigo promptly says, before turning back and focusing on his fishing. I smile at him, before making my way beside him and leaning on the edge of the boat.

"Is there something you want?" He asks, examining me. I nod my head, before pointing back up at the house.

"What's up?" He asks with confusion. I groan, before imitating walking legs with my fingers, and then pointing to where the Town Square would be located. It takes Indigo a second to realize what I mean, before it finally dawns on him.

"Ah, we're going. Okay, let me reel this in," he informs me. I sigh, before crossing my arms and tapping my foot impatiently.

"Ha ha! Yes, come to your death you son of a bitch!" He gloats victoriously, as he reels in a fairly large fish that struggled intently, but to no avail. He flings the fish into the air, before slamming it onto the decking of the boat. He looks up, grinning wildly at me, before kneeling down and stabbing the fish to kill it. He hangs it up, in order for the blood to drain, before finally turning back to me.

"Okay, now we go to the Reaping."

* * *

 **Kenn Pellegrino**

 **~17~**

 **District 4**

"Are you sure there isn't any way out of this?" My mother asks as we walk down the stony footpath. I roll my eyes, expressing a sigh of frustration. Oh, if there were a way out, I would be taking that in an instant.

"No mother, there isn't a way out unless you want me to get even more bullied for the rest of my life," I reply bitterly, eyes lowering to the path. I hear my mother hum a disapproving tone as she crosses her arms, appearing quite uncomfortable with the situation. Who am I to blame her, she's built a life in this District and now the cruel people that live in it are basically manipulating me into

leaving her. Her only son, who will be gone in just over half an hour.

I cannot help but frown glumly as we continue walking, with kids snickering at me, some laughing, and others just whispering to one another. What did I ever do to them? I've never even spoken to all of these people, yet they find it necessary to ruin my life? I turn my vision away from the kids, gritting my teeth as I put up with the stares. I can feel their eyes boring into my skull despite not actually seeing them. I need a distraction.

"Mother, is it a good idea to be going out in public and attending this Reaping?" I ask with concern for her safety.

"The Peacekeepers would have no idea that I was initially from another District, and the ones back there would just presume that I've gone missing, and have probably been kidnapped and murdered," she informs me.

"Way to sugar coat things," I mutter. She chuckles nervously, before sighing with a look of sadness. My stomach begins to churn, while my chest feels light. I know that feeling, the feeling of guilt. At this point, I care more about the fact that I'm leaving my family, more so than the fact that I'm going into a competition based on killing one another, where only one tribute will make it out alive.

I can only imagine what my parents will have to go through when watching me in the arena, waking up every day unsure if I died overnight, watching me struggle with the extremities that the arena enforces upon me, as well as just trying to outlast the rest of the tributes. I shake my head, throwing the thoughts from my mind. I'm scared that if I keep thinking about these type of things, I'll completely chicken out of volunteering. From here on out, I have to be determined, confident, ready.

"Do you think the Capitol will like me?" I ask out of curiosity. Of course, she would have no idea how the Capitol will perceive me, but it's nice to be reassured that they will either way.

"I'm positive Kenn, you're a strong, handsome young man, you'll take the Capitol by storm," she says confidently.

"Ha, well I don't hold a candle to Finnick, but if I can get by without being hated, then that should be enough," I laugh.

"Well I believe he is mentoring this year, perhaps he'll be able to give you a few tips," she suggests, staying optimistic.

"Yeah, you're right I think he is, as well as his wife Annie," I reply. My mother hums a doubtful groan.

"I'm not sure if you'll be able to worm anything out of Annie, she isn't exactly the most. . . normal person," she comments. I look up at my mother with a rather disapproving look.

"Hey, that's not very nice mother. I'm sure she tries her hardest, she has had a rough time," I defend. Being so outcast and seemingly weird myself, I've always had an affinity for others that aren't particularly perceived positively by others. Annie is from what I've heard, a very nice, polite, and quiet person. Sometimes she has panic attacks from her PTSD, but it's not fair to instantly cast her aside because of that.

"Sorry Kenn, you're right, my mistake," my mother corrects herself.

"It's alright, I get what you mean though," I reply. Just as I finish my sentence, we enter the hot, and blindingly bright Town Square. The colors of blue and aqua are plentiful, with countless decorations relating to shells, and regal golden pillars and patterns as if this were a place straight out of Atlantis. How stereotypical of us.

The crowd has begun to build up where we stand, with people saying goodbyes and good lucks to their children, mainly the girls since there isn't an allocated volunteer for them this year. This is it. I turn to my mother, putting on a confident smile despite how I feel internally. It's for her sake in all honesty.

I think she has the same mindset, as her expression shifts from a concerned and troubled look, to a drastically proud and admiring expression. Her eyes don't however, and I can still see the hurt and fear in them. I embrace her in a hug, staying like this for a number of seconds. Despite the fact that I will be able to see her during my final goodbyes, I don't ever want to have to let go. I close my eyes, taking in the warmth and comfort her body brings. Her motherly affection makes her appear so helpless, and frail. I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt, and before too long, she lets me go. It's good that she was the one to do so, she needs to embrace the fact that I am leaving.

"Hopefully I see you on the other side," I say softly. She raises a smooth hand to my face, caressing my cheek as she stares at me.

"You will see me again, you're going to get through this Kenn, I know it," she replies firmly. I nod, trying to believe it myself.

"Your father and I will see you after the Reaping, just always remember, we love you," she informs me, before taking a step back. I want to say more, but I know it's time to move on. As I walk away, she fades into the crowd, watching me through the maze of people.

Here goes nothing. I make my way towards the line, full of talkative and excitable people. I look down, not really wanting to draw any attention to myself. I can't be bothered putting up with anyone's shit right now. Unfortunately, seeing as it's me, it doesn't take long for someone to notice the weird kid that enjoys his own company and prefers to be productive with his own hobby rather than fight, aka myself.

"Hey, it's some of the new batch of cannon fodder for this year," a boy from in front says loudly, pointing at me and causing a bunch of his cronies to roar a round of laughter. I ignore him, continuing to wait patiently for the line to move on. I don't understand what's wrong with being quiet, is it because since I never react they see it as being easy to give me shit?

No, it's not. It's because it's an easy way of displaying their power, against someone who won't fight back against them. It's not that I can't fight them, it's just that I don't see the point in doing it. Everyone else would gang up on me, and then I will be pummeled into the ground.

So, like usual, I refrain from saying anything to these people. He only manages to get out a few more insults before he has been called to have his name ticked off. I wait silently for the next few people to have their names checked, before I finally hear a "next" aimed at me. I arrive at the desk, wanting to get through this quickly and efficiently.

"Finger out please," the Peacekeeper instructs. I place my index finger out in front of me, making it look like I'm pointing at the Peacekeeper. They slide it into the little cube, which wastes no time in producing the infuriating high pitched whistle noise, before jabbing the tip of my finger. A buzz signifies that my name has come up, while I look for my name to place a finger print beside. Once having done so, the Peacekeeper checks everything to make sure I have been completely checked.

"Okay Kenn, move along now," they instruct, causing me to turn and find myself looking for the seventeen year-old section. I don't struggle, as it's in the same place as every year, like all of the age sections. I walk past scathing eyes, ones that turn away as soon as I look up to avoid being caught staring. They all know that I am volunteering.

When I make it to the seventeen year-old section, I try to avoid looking up. I never really drew much attention before I was voted, but now that I am volunteering, I attract looks left right and center. I stare down at my feet as I try to subtly wade my way through the crowd towards the front, as it'll make my volunteering a whole lot more easier if I'm at the front.

People move aside for me, some snickering, others just silent. I even catch a few people that look at me sympathetically. They know I'm being forced to do this, they know I don't want to volunteer. Out of all the Career District's, District 4 easily has the worst method of selecting their volunteers. It's cruel, because people that never wanted to have anything to do with the Games, are forced into having everything to do with the Games.

Eventually, I make it to the front, where I can at least get a clear view of the stage. It appears that just as I've made it here, the Reaping has begun to take play. Instead of applause however, I hear people murmuring and whispering to one another, as instead of the Victor's walking onto the stage first, it's our mayor, Mayor Atlan who makes his way solemnly onto the stage. He settles behind the microphone, head lowered sadly and hands grasped in front of him. The crowd becomes completely silent for him, as we await to hear what news he has.

"Citizens of District 4, I regret to inform you that overnight, our immensely loved Victor, Mags Flanagan, has unfortunately passed away," his voice rings out strongly throughout the Town Square. Shock grasps ahold of the crowd, not a single person breathes as we absorb the information. My own mind is racing, as I try to accept that Mags has passed away. Mags was our oldest living Victor, winner of the 11th Hunger Games. She was our second ever Victor, and to most people in the District, she was a figure that has been around for as long as they could remember. My focus is once again pulled towards the stage, as Mayor Atlan speaks again.

"I now invite the past Victor's onto the stage, to join us in a moment of silence as we commemorate the life of Mags Flanagan," he says softly, his arm motioning the Victor's to join him on stage. I watch as every one of our seven living Victors, file onto the stage in the order that they won. Our now oldest living Victor, Aqua Richards of the 33rd Hunger Games. Shelly Crunella who won the 34th Hunger Games. Tide Wells of the 42nd Hunger Games. Conch Sennedy of the 54th Hunger Games. Bay Naeco of the 60th Hunger Games. Finnick Odair of the 65th Hunger Games, and lastly Annie Cresta, Victor of the 70th Hunger Games.

Each of them hold hands as they stare blankly out over the crowd. Most begin to lower their heads, whilst Finnick stares ahead determined. Few tears seep from his eyes, tracing the structure of his jaw line, compared to Annie who cannot help but sob. Her eyes are red from crying, and her beautiful face is flushed from the emotion she experiences. I lower my eyes down a little further, to see how tightly Finnick and Annie's hands are gripped together. Even when the minute of silence ends, their hands don't leave one another.

"Now we must solider on, that's what Mags would have wanted us to do," Mayor Atlan announces.

"Without any further ado, we welcome our endearing Escort, Loren Somerton," he calls out, politely clapping but lacking his enthusiasm. The spark that the crowd had at the beginning, has been completely defused. We also contribute a polite round of applause, but the excitement from everyone has undoubtedly been lost. I watch as Loren walks on to the stage. Usually, she is very energetic, making a big show out of the Reaping, but today she couldn't be further from doing that. She looks downright miserable, as she comes to a stop directly in front of the microphone.

"Good afternoon District 4. Today, is a sad day, and there is no other way to describe it. We have all been deeply affected by the passing of Mags, and having worked with her numerous times during my career as an Escort, I am completely devastated by this passing," she says quietly. She gives a little time for herself to recover, as she even begins to tear up a little. Quickly recovering, she takes a deep breath and continues on.

"Out of respect to her memory and for your loss, we will get through this Reaping at a professional pace. I will begin now," she informs us, before taking her steps towards the female bowl. When she reaches the bowl, she simply places it inside and grabs the first one that her fingers make contact with. Making her way back to the microphone, she wastes no time with announcing the lucky girl.

"Nixxie Cascade."

I try to rack my brain for any sign of recognition, but I genuinely find nothing. I don't think I've ever heard of Nixxie before. Regardless of the somber mood, people urgently try to catch any sign of Nixxie. It's only a couple of seconds before I hear a little commotion occurring in the sixteen year-old section. I glance over hoping to catch a glimpse of Nixxie.

Eventually I see her at the front, bursting out of the crowd with a smile embedded onto her face. Now I recognize her. There is a set of triplets that go to the Academy, and she appears to be one of them. Nixxie is a slim but athletic appearing girl, of a seemingly average height. She looks very much like a District 4 citizen, with deeply tanned skin and a number of other features. Her hair is a golden blonde, reaching her midback and contorted into a plaited style, while her eyes are a hopeful sea green, appearing very light in the District 4 sunlight.

As she begins to walk past my section, everyone watches her with absolute interest. This is usually how people react when there is a new tribute walking past them. Before entirely passing the section, she looks to her side, resultantly locking eye contact with me.

* * *

 **Nixxie Cascade**

 **~16~**

 **District 4**

The boy is easily recognizable, especially seeing as he came up in conversation earlier. Kenn Pellegrino stands at the front of the seventeen year-old section, ready to volunteer presumably. He stares at me, just like everybody else, examining the person he is going to be going into the arena with.

I turn away shortly after, as I prepare myself to walk up onto the stage. In all honesty, I'm experiencing mixed emotions right now, it's a very strange atmosphere. I'm still quite alarmed by the passing of Mags, that was rather shocking, but the thing is it has affected the whole crowd. So, when I should be getting excitable whispers and cheers from the people, instead I'm surrounded by a distraught crowd who has to cope with the death of highly loved Victor.

They can't just shift their mood in an instant, in order to act excited and happy for me. So, it's up to me to make them proud when the Games come around.

On the other hand, I'm also quite excited that I have just been Reaped. I may have said earlier that I probably wouldn't make it out, but I can't afford to think like that right now. Instead, I'm rather enthused by this new and exclusive opportunity. Instead of just being that one that never speaks in my family, I could be the one that is the family legacy. A Cascade Victor. That's if I make it out of course.

If I treat it like everyday life, then I potentially could have a shot of winning. Around the area of the District that we live in, Brooke, Sirena and I are in a sense, known and feared. We hang out with a violent crowd, and a lot of the time we get into a lot of trouble. The boys protect Brooke and Sirena, because they are the 'beautiful damsel's', but of course since I am not nearly as favored as they are, I had to learn to fend for myself.

I can fight, I can scavenge, perhaps I may stand a chance after all.

When I get to the base of the stairs, I take a deep breath. Once I step onto the stage, the camera's and everyone in the District will have a clear view of me. The nation is about to learn who Nixxie Cascade is. I take the cool metal banister in my hand, as I steady myself to escalate the stairs. Each step causes my heart to beat faster, but not from nerves, by no means. It's all from my contained excitement that is ready to burst.

Did I ever expect to be Reaped? No, I don't think anyone ever expects their name to be the one drawn from that fateful bowl, and read out for the entirety of Panem to hear. The more fitting question however, is did I expect to be this exhilarated? Hell no, I never saw myself having such an excitement to enter a game of death in all of my life. Yet, here I am now, with a new-found taste for adventure and action, which I've finally been presented. What I've had uncovered for me, is something completely new in my life. We have always watched the Hunger Games, and we have always enjoyed them. Actually being granted the opportunity to be the one on screen, in the arena, is a possibility I never considered. Now, I have to make my family proud, when they are watching me on the TV.

When I finally make it up the stairs, I stand at the top on the stage's flat surface. I take small steps forward, taking in the fact that Loren, Finnick, Annie, and all these famous Victor's are watching me _. Me._

"Congratulations dear, please, come to the center," Loren encourages me, waving her arm. I stride forward, taking my place next to her and looking out over the crowd. It's a sea of people, all with their eyes on me.

"So Nixxie dear, how do you feel about being Reaped?" Loren asks. I glance at her before, taking a moment to figure out how to respond. I settle on nodding my head intently, whilst planting a smile on my face to show that I am quite enthused about it. Loren drops her smile for a split second, her eyes displaying confusion with my method of response. Despite this, she attempts to pick up the conversation again.

"Well that's good! Do you have anything else to say?" She asks. For a moment, my face falls in confusion.

 _What? No, even if I did, I can't, doesn't she realize?_

I can't figure out a way of telling her I can't even say anything fast enough, so I have to settle for shaking my head and answering with no.

"Ah, well it doesn't look like Nixxie's up for much talking right now, which is understandable with the tragedy of Mags' death. Hopefully we can hear from Nixxie at another point," she announces, with an arm around my shoulder. I look at up her with a critical expression, eyes narrowed in disapproval.

 _Wait, no! It's not because of that! She's making me look weak!_

As Loren makes her way over to the male bowl, I cross my arms and glare at her. That's not fair, now people will think I'm just emotionally weak, and that'll hurt my sponsor chances! I close my eyes, breathing deeply through my nose in order to calm myself down. It's not her fault, she doesn't know that I'm mute, and there is no way of her knowing until I properly tell. . . show, her. Man, I wish I brought my notepad and marker, that would have helped the situation out a ton more.

I watch as she selects a slip from right off the top. This isn't as exciting, as the majority of people know who is meant to be volunteering. If Kenn happens to not volunteer, well he will be in for it after the Reaping. He would be abused both verbally and physically, he would be banished from the Academy, he would never live it down. He needs to be ready, for his sake I hope he has the balls to volunteer.

Loren brings the slip from the bowl back to center of the stage, unfolding it and readying herself to read the slip. She reads it herself before she announces it, folding it back up and bringing the microphone close to her mouth.

"And accompanying Miss Cascade for the 80th Annual Hunger Games is. . . Kenn Pellegrino."

If it was silent during the minute of silence, then I don't know what to call this. Absence of noise all together? It's so silent that I can hear the crashing waves from the ocean despite us being quite far inland.

 _What? Did. . . that just happen?_

I glance down at Kenn, who is still stood at the front of the row. People all around him stare at him with shock, before some start to laugh. Loren appears taken aback, seeing people laughing at a person that has just been Reaped. It's pretty much expected for me, regardless of the way Kenn was going to become a tribute, there were always going to be people that laugh at him.

Kenn glances down at the floor, his eyes darting around as he sees people laughing and giggling at him. I can't help but feel bad for him, what did he ever do to these people? He begins to walk up to the stage, head lowered shyly. He looks so different from your traditional District 4 tribute, it's so easy to spot him in the crowd made up of about 99% blonde people with dazzling green eyes.

Kenn has coal black hair which contrasts significantly from the norm. His hear is thick, and still holds the traditional curl that District 4 tends to have. He does have tanned skin, but it is nowhere near as dark as most people, which may have to do with genetics, or a lack or outside activity, or even both. His physique is fairly impressive, with noticeable tone to his muscles which he would have picked up from training. His eyes, are another thing that is quite honestly strange to me. Instead of a sea green like mine, or even an electric blue, they are more so a sky blue that almost look grey. It's as if he has eyes from District 6 or 8. In all honesty, he isn't a bad looking guy.

He eventually makes his way up on to the stage. At this point, he has decided to look up from the ground, and forces himself to stare at the snickering crowd. He shuffles to the center of the stage, on the other side of Loren.

"Welcome to the stage Kenn, and congratulations on becoming District 4's newest tribute!" Loren gushes, trying to act a little more upbeat now.

"Thanks Loren, I'm happy I can represent my District in such a highly-anticipated competition," he replies, almost a little too softly.

"Will there be any volunteers?" Loren calls out, obviously expecting a volunteer as we are a Career District.

"There won't be," Kenn informs her. She glances at him, looking surprised.

"Are you sure about that Kenn?" She asks.

"Yes, because I was the one that was going to volunteer before I got picked," he replies quietly. Loren blinks, obviously a little new to this news.

"Oh, well doesn't that just make this easier for you," Loren beams, her voice shrill and excited.

"Yes, of course," Kenn smiles back. I may be the only one that catches the twitch that his smile makes.

"Well ladies and gentlemen, that brings us to the end of this year's Reaping!" Loren announces.

"Feel free to shake hands now," Loren whispers to us, before taking a step back. Both Kenn and I simultaneously put our hands out, meeting with a grasp. We both appropriately look in to each other's eyes, which gives me the opportunity to truly read him. Unsurprisingly, Kenn appears to be pained. I take it upon myself to squeeze his hand, and give him a reassuring smile.

Kenn will be in the Career pack, and therefore he will be my ally. For his sake, I need him to be at the best of his ability, and he won't achieve that if he is letting the cruelty of the people back here get to him.

Upon seeing my smile, Kenn's eyes widen, before he glances away and eventually we both let go. Well I can't say I'm shocked, he has always seemed a little shy.

"District 4, your tributes for the 80th Annual Hunger Games, Nixxie Cascade and Kenn Pellegrino!" Loren exclaims, holding up both our arms. The crowd applaud, many people at the front looking at Kenn and smirking. I can't help but glare at these people. Before too long, the Peacekeepers are at my side, and I am being led away towards the Justice Building. Just before Kenn enters the building, I see the expression on his face. Complete, and utter, depression.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hey guys! I'm back with another chapter, introducing our District 4 tributes, Nixxie Cascade and Kenn Pellegrino, submitted by** _Golden Moon Huntress_ **and** _DamBaudelaires_ **respectively. Now a third of the way through the Reaping's, yay!**

 **So, what did you guys think of Nixxie and Kenn? Love? Like? Dislike? Hate? Neutral? How far will they make it? What did you think of their characters? Like usual I would love to know all that good stuff!**

 **Also, I figured I would tell you guys, I've made a blog where you can see all of the tributes, escorts, and Celestia! It has all the necessary information that will be updated as scores come out, alliances are formed, and the Games begin. The thing is, I will give you guys the site when I have finished the Reaping's, and all the tributes have been introduced. I know, it sucks, but I want to keep the tributes secret until they are revealed one by one! So, when I release District 12's Reaping, I'll tell you guys how to get to it in an instant! This was where the faceclaim part of the form came in guys, so I had to try and find the best suiting image for those that didn't have a faceclaim, so sorry if it's not what you pictured your tribute looking like! Also I think there is only one instance where I didn't use the faceclaim provided, because I couldn't find a fitting image of the person. (For anyone curious, if you want to know what Celestia looks like, I used Chloe Grace Moretz as her faceclaim :p, I have an insane celeb crush on her)**

 **Anyways, that's it for now guys, I'll try and get District 5 out soon, and I'll see you then! Bye!**


	8. District 5: Tyka and Thomas

**Reaping V**

* * *

 _Ingenuity : /ˌɪndʒɪˈnjuːɪti/_

(in-jen-oo-it-e)

the quality of being clever, original, and inventive.

 _"considerable ingenuity must be employed in writing software"_

* * *

 **Thomas "Edison" Edward**

 **~15~**

 **District 5**

Despite my door being firmly closed shut, I can still hear the crying, wailing children that are outside of the room. Sobs and screams corrupt the serenity of the room, causing me to grumble and block my ears. Every year. Every damn year. On this day, the younger kids always have to cry.

Some of them, I understand, they have turned twelve and they are frightened of being Reaped, and going into the Hunger Games, even more alone than they are now. The younger kids on the other hand, what do they have to worry about? They aren't going to get chosen, they aren't even eligible.

It can be argued that they don't want anyone here to be shipped off and killed for the Capitol's enjoyment and entertainment, but kids come in and out of here all the time. They are registered at a young age, when they are first given away, or in some cases left on the doorstep, and then when they are too old at eighteen, they are forced to be expelled from the orphanage.

It's not like they're happy here anyways, this place is just depressing. All of us, motherless, fatherless, almost completely alone in this world.

I toss my body to rest on my side, facing a wooden wall and a dirty musty window. My eyes trace the patterns that rain drops have left a trail of overtime. The window is difficult to see out of, I don't think it's been washed in a long time. I reach out my hand, just stopping before my fingers graze the glass surface. I hold out one finger, before resting it on the cool glass. Running it downwards, I leave a trail of cleanliness, no dust, no grime, but a less opaque window.

Examining my finger, I frown with distaste as I see the dirt layer that has coated my finger tip. What else should I have expected? The orphanage doesn't clean this place, we are expected to do that ourselves. I force my body up, sitting upwards and causing the mattress springs to squeak uncomfortably. It's bad enough that I don't weigh much to begin with, but if this mattress can't even handle my light weight, then I am slightly concerned.

Regardless, I shake the thought from my mind as I lean forward towards the window. The little bit of glass that I wiped the dust away from already gives so much more of a clear view to the outside. I can't do much for the dirtiness on the outside, but what I can do is make it more bearable to look at. I grab a tissue from the bedside table, feeling the scratchy rough material of cheap excuses for tissues. It'll have to do.

I begin to wipe the dust away with the tissue, starting from the top corner and making my way all the way down to the bottom. It takes roughly twenty seconds, but before too long, I am able to discard the blackened tissue and for once, stare out of a reasonably clear window from my room.

The orphanage rests on the side of a hill, with lush green shrubbery surrounding the exterior of the building. These fairly mountainous and nature claimed terrains are what surround the valley that is District 5's city. The hill that the building has been established on, overlooks the valley as one of the first lots of buildings that make up the majority of the District's infrastructure. In all honesty, we have a spectacular view.

At night, District 5 is lit up with various fluorescent lights that really make the District shine, mainly because of our production of all types of energy sources. That gives even the poorest of our population, twenty-four-hour access to electricity or a sustainable energy source.

Big buildings and experimental labs make up a significant portion of the main city, and that's what is lit up the most at night. Luckily for me, it's what I have a perfect view of. I sigh sadly, as I examine the outline of the marvelous structures, watching as smoke billows out of some buildings, whilst others reflect the suns light in order to capture the solar energy. It makes me sad that I have to be confined to where I am for the majority of my life.

I've only ever been able to venture out to the major city, whenever the Reaping occurs. Today is one of those days, where I am actually being given the opportunity to go to the Town Square, and once again see the remarkable architecture of our District. Before too long, I am distracted by the door being abruptly opened, creating a loud bang as it impacts with the wooden wall. I cannot help but jump slightly, evidently startled by the sudden occurrence. I sit with my back straightened, and my head turned towards the door, whilst my eyes have been widened to accompany my look of surprise. It isn't very difficult to recognize the girl that strolls into the room directly after, who doesn't particularly pay attention to the disruption that she has caused.

"Anything come up in that genius mind of yours that can help us avoid the Reaping yet?" Asks my friend, Nema Lou. I examine her figure, slim as expected for a typical orphan, but she is still impressively healthy in appearance. Olive skin makes up her complexion, although both hers and my own skin is a fairly pale standard of olive due to the lack of sunshine our skin receives. Her chocolate brown eyes examine me, with bags underneath that are slightly darker than her own olive skin. Her hair is thick and long, having been cut rarely. She allows it to sway at a low length, grazing just at the top of her rear.

Rags are what make up her clothing, having once been nice and clean, now covered in a layer of dirt and grime that has built up overtime. It's not as if she hasn't washed her clothes, it's more so the fact that she never gets new clothes, as is the same for me. She stands with her hands on her hips, a look of solemnness embedded onto her face. She expects a response, I doubt she expects a good one.

"If I were to have done that, I would have stopped attending the Reaping before I was eligible," I reply, smirking at the look of begrudging tolerance she displays.

"That's helpful, isn't it," she responds, sounding particularly bored. I raise my eyebrow at her, noting her level of disappointment.

"Sarcasm, I hardly think that's necessary," I respond quietly, fully turning around to properly face her.

"Well, I don't think the killing of twenty-three kids every year is necessary, but they still do it," she shoots back. I cannot help but chuckle, finding her notably dark sense of humor rather amusing.

"I predict the Hunger Games will die out, the new President isn't helping it's case," I state.

"Huh? What makes you say that?" Nema asks, stepping over and sitting down beside me.

"Celestia Snow, Granddaughter to Coriolanus Snow, I've watched her on the television, and I've been able to read her as a result. She personally doesn't like the Hunger Games," I inform Nema, who stares at me as if I was crazy.

"Um, no offence Thomas, but that's a big call. I mean, if that were the case, wouldn't she have ended the Hunger Games by now?" Nema contradicts.

"Ha, of course not, that would be the stupidest thing that she could possibly do. That would end her families reign as the rulers of Panem," I snort.

"How so?" Nema asks.

"If she ended the highly successful and immensely popular Hunger Games, that has kept the District's in line for eighty years, and the Capitol happy for just as long, there would be riots in the streets, she would likely be assassinated, it would virtually be impossible to end the Games just like that," I explain, folding my arms. Nema thinks for a moment, before looking defeated.

"I guess that makes sense. . . but how do you know she hates the Hunger Games? You can't just read a person's intentions and personal information just by looking at them," Nema claims.

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but that's exactly what I can do. It's a little thing to do with frequencies that a person's brain emits, electric signals that are messages the brain forms, pretty much like chemical reactions in the brain," I explain. I grin smugly at her, as she glares at me.

"My brain just has a way of picking them up," I add on. Her face falls, looking completely unamused.

"You're full of shit," she replies.

"Pretty much, but I'm still smart enough to read into how people may be feeling with body language, their eyes, and the circumstances in which these two factors come into play. Whenever she speaks about the Games, I can see that she is forced, she does it unwillingly. Unlike everyone else, I seem to notice the smallest things that truly tell me what someone is thinking," I tell her, honestly this time.

"Oh really?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, for example, you came into here because you wanted to ask me out on a date for after the Reaping," I grin. Nema's attitude drastically shifts with that statement, with her eyes widening whilst she leans back in shock. She starts to stammer and stutter, while her face blushes furiously.

"H-how did you know that?" She whispers frantically. I cannot help but laugh.

"Did I not just explain?" I reply. Nema looks down, evidently embarrassed by the whole ordeal. I cannot help but examine her affectionately, whilst putting my hand in her own. I entwine my fingers with hers, causing her to look up at me timidly.

"Yes," I say. Her forehead creases in confusion.

"Huh? Yes to what?" She asks.

"Yes, I would love to go on a date," I reply warmly. She looks at me for a second, absorbing my response, before she appears to become excited.

"Really, you will?" She exclaims, jumping up with excitement.

"Of course!" I reply enthusiastically. I refrain from adding on how unlikely this is to mean anything serious. It's a case of teen love, where nothing is set in stone, and it barely means much other than a title. I hope this is a different case however, I have always liked Nema, from a young age I was just drawn to her. I would like this to last, but of course I'm not getting my hopes up.

I'm taken off guard when Nema wraps me up in a crushing hug, causing me to smell the cheap soap that our orphanage struggles to afford. I cannot help but feel my chest flutter with excitement, just the idea that I'm hugging Nema making me sweat nervously.

"That went better than I expected, uh. . . I'm going to go get ready for the Reaping," she informs me, beaming with heavy positivity.

"No problem. I'll meet you outside," I reply with a smile. She practically skips out of the room, before closing the door behind her with a slam. I take a deep breath, attempting to calm myself down. I'm about to stand up, however my attention is drawn to where Nema had been sitting. When she had leapt up from the bed, she had pushed the mattress back slightly, revealing the bottom of the bed frame. I lean down, picking up delicately what had been uncovered, that was hidden under the mattress. The envelope was once a snowy, flawless white, however, overtime it has begun to deteriorate. It is discolored and yellow, with creases running along it like ripples in the water.

I turn it over to look at the front, seeing the neat and spiky handwriting, drawn in a calligraphic style that has been outdated for years. The black ink had dried out years ago, before any smudging could occur, meaning it is the neatest part of this old letter. It's not the handwriting that is the most meaningful part to me however, it's what it says.

 _Letter Two:_

 _To Thomas Edward_

 _From Your Father, Isaac Edward_

My father left this letter with me as an infant, when he left me on the doorstep of the orphanage. I presume the Letter Two part initially came from the first one being to the orphanage explaining the situation. He left me this letter to open when I was of an age to understand the contents. Yet, I've never opened it.

It's been for a number of reasons really, I've always been too scared to look, because I fear that it will tell me of his death. I also fear it will tell me the reasons on why he gave me away, and why there was no mother in my life either.

The main reason, that I've never opened this ominous old letter, is because it's all I have from my real parents. It's the only reason I have to believe that I am destined for something that isn't in this orphanage, yet I'm still petrified of the idea of opening it, and ruining the one intact piece from my life before the orphanage.

My eyes leave the envelope, looking out at the city in the distance, where the Reaping would be taking place. I give one last look at the envelope, before slipping it into my pocket. Who knows, perhaps I'll need it.

* * *

 _Disparate : /ˈdɪsp(ə)rət/_

(diss-pa-rate)

essentially different in kind; not able to be compared.

 _"they inhabit disparate worlds of thought"_

* * *

 **Tyka Brites**

 **~14~**

 **District 5**

It looks amazing, the vibrancy, the colors, it had taken so long, yet it was definitely worth the effort. I take a step back, admiring my effort by looking from left to right. It truly is a rainbow, a spectrum of color. I find myself stepping over to the left end, where I initially had begun. I started with the color yellow, and furthermore, the brighter ones were to the left, whilst the dull ones were slanted more towards the right.

I reach out, a smile creeping onto my face as I take a sleeve of one of the dresses. The smooth, silky material flows easily through my fingers, while I throw my head up to enjoy the bliss sensation of the cool fabric.

I love this dress.

I begin to move on, letting the sleeve drop lifelessly as I find myself passing the orange colored clothing. Now I feel the hem of a dress, the material feeling rougher but thicker than the yellow dress had been.

I love this dress.

The red clothes are just as pleasing to the eye. I tilt my head with a small smile, whilst I caress the fabric of a crimson red shirt. This is the thickest material of all, for a shirt that is intended to be worn in the winter. When the snow falls, and makes the ground fluffy, white and cool, the warm, beating red shirt, makes me stand out from the rest. I cannot help but grin now, with happy memories of wearing this shirt filling my head.

I love this shirt. In fact, I love all of my clothing. I love all of the pinks, all of the purples, all of the blues, greens, blacks and whites. But when they are all together, in this rainbow filled closet, I can truly admire the masterpiece that I have made.

 _I need to show mother!_ I think excitedly.

I shudder with enthusiasm, my mind ecstatic with the idea of showing my hard work off to my mother. She will be so impressed! The order that I have given to the clothes in my wardrobe makes it look so neat!

Racing out of my room, I find my way through the corridor until I can locate my mother, Sarrika Brites. I look from one room to the other, finding room after room to be vacant of people. Where is she? After minutes of looking, I still haven't found any sign of her, causing me to breathe heavily.

No, no, no she has to be here, she is always here! My breathing becomes more rapid, as I stumble around continuing to try to pin point her location. Tears begin to leak from my eyes, as a worried expression becomes embedded onto my face. Pouting heavily, I'm about to enter another room when I almost slam into a larger person. I gasp, jumping back in a fright as I attempt to recover from such a startling occurrence. I look up, my face lighting up with delight when I recognize the familiar loving face of my mother.

"Mom! I couldn't find you!" I cry out, leaping into her arms and hugging her tightly. I hear her breath suddenly leave her body, as soon as I impact with her, assumedly taking her by surprise. She regains her breathing pattern, recovering from the winding I accidentally gave her, before she begins to pat me on the back.

"Tyka I was always here, it's okay," she says softly in my ear. I smile, burying my face into the nook of her shoulder and neck. Whenever she speaks like that in my ear, she makes me feel safe. After a couple more seconds of hugging, I feel her bend lower, before placing me back on the ground.

"Why were you trying to find me?" She asks, smiling down at me. I grin at her, before taking her hand in my own.

"I-I wanted to show you something that's a surprise, I worked really hard on it!" I exclaim excitedly, with my heart pounding in my chest. My mother beams at me, while she places her free hand on top of mine that already grips hers. She does it delicately, her soft fingers feeling warm against my own skin.

"Well let's take a look, lead the way," she instructs, flashing me a toothy grin. I jump up in excitement, before turning towards the direction of my bedroom, and pulling her along the way. When we enter my room, I bolt over to the wardrobe door, before flinging open the door to give her an image of my masterpiece.

"Isn't it wonderful?" I ask, as she walks further into the room, examining the rainbow of clothing.

"O-oh yes, why of course it is Tyka," she says sweetly, squeezing my shoulder from behind.

"It took ages mom, I spent hours organizing it," I exclaim, staring at it lovingly. My mother bends down lower, coughing slightly to clear her throat, before she lightly grabs my shoulders and turns me to face her.

"It looks lovely dear, why don't you choose one of the dresses, so you can wear one of them to the Reaping?" She suggests softly. I raise my eyebrow at her, confusion becoming prominent on my face.

"What? But, I worked so hard on it, why do I have to ruin it?" I ask, my voice shaking. My mother opens her eyes widely, looking quite alarmed by what she said.

"No! Uh, I didn't mean it like that Tyka, you're not ruining it," she assures me. I don't listen to her, I can't listen to her, she is telling me to destroy my creation by taking away one of the items of clothing. I begin to tear up, and I uncontrollably begin to sob.

"I d-don't wanna wreck it, I spent so l-long on it! Please don't m-mom, don't make me d-do it," I sob, speaking between sniffs. My mother pulls me forward, embracing me in a tight hug, whilst rubbing my back.

"You can put it back when we get home, don't you want to wear something special? Choose a dress, and I'll make you look just as beautiful as Ceres Powell," she promises. I immediately stop crying, before looking at my mother's soft face with red eyes, and tears still flowing down my flushed cheeks.

"Really? I'll look as pretty as Ceres?" I ask. She nods, a smile stuck on her face. I cannot help but allow a smile to creep up onto my own face. Wow, will I really look as beautiful as Ceres does? I have always admired Ceres, she has been an inspiration to me since I was nine, and she first was Reaped.

I wipe my tears away, realizing that I probably overreacted. Although I'm not sure why, sometimes I just get far too emotional. Yet, I can't help it.

"I've always wanted to meet her," I say quietly. My mother looks at me sadly, before caressing my arm.

"Perhaps one day sweetie. Come on, let's get you ready," she encourages. She escorts me towards the closet, whilst my eyes scan the range of clothes.

"Which one? What makes you feel pretty?" She asks softly. I bite my lip, as my eyes dart from dress, to top, to skirt. It's an eternity, before my eyes finally land on something that completely captures my attention.

"That one," I breathe, awe struck by the bright and serene looking white dress, that hangs up near the end of the spectrum. I walk forward numbly, as I examine it with complete and utter interest. When I softly take the dress down, the material almost melts to the outline of my hand. It is a cool and silky texture, one that is so light that it feels like one gust of wind can blow it ethereally.

I turn to my mother with wide eyes of excitement, whilst she examines me with a small smile on her face.

"Can I wear this?" I ask politely. My mother chuckles in response, before giving her answer.

"Of course you can dear, you can wear whatever you want," she responds. I look back at the dress in my hands, shaking my head.

"No, it won't be whatever, it'll be this," I reply softly.

"Very well, I'll turn away to give you the opportunity to change," she informs me, before turning her body around. I slip off the relatively bland looking shirt and shorts that I have on, leaving me almost entirely nude. If it wasn't for the few articles of undergarments, I would be shivering and vulnerable in a state of skin. I carefully slip my dress over the top of my body, until my head pokes out of the top. I slither my arms through the straps, so that they rest on my shoulders. I twirl around, looking in the head high mirror at how it looks.

It looks phenomenal.

"Wow, it looks. . ." I trail off, my thoughts getting lost in my mind as I take it all in.

"Lovely," my mother finishes off my sentence, joining me in front of the mirror. I look up at her, smiling lightly.

"Yeah," I giggle.

"You know, this dress used to be mine. It was always very special to me," she tells me, as she pulls over a chair and places herself down on it.

"Really? I can see why," I reply, admiring the purity of the white tone. It's so radiant, it shines as bright as a lightbulb, as bright as the sun, but when you're looking at it. That's when the sun appears the most white.

"I feel like I'm an angel," I utter in amazement.

"Well little angel, why don't I do up your hair, and make you even more dashing," she laughs.

"Oh please, yes!" I gush. I race over towards another chair, although it's actually a stool, before dragging it over and placing it in front of my mother. I sit down on the hard-wooden surface, facing the closet and all of the colorful clothes. It's only a few seconds before I feel my mother's fingers graze my hair, lightly grabbing long strands in groups.

I close my eyes as I enjoy the feeling of my mother's delicate fingers running through my long thin hair. It feels relaxing, almost like a massage as it pulls against my scalp ever so lightly. I feel her move my hair, weaving it in and out to form something spectacular. She entwines the hair until she gets to the very bottom. After a while, I become aware that my mother has stopped, as I am ceasing to feel my mother's fingers in my hair.

"All done, take a look," she encourages. I open my eyes, before turning to the mirror. My hair has been formed very carefully to display a braid, which has been placed in front of my shoulder so I can get a better look at it. Initially, I'm speechless, awestruck by how well my hair has been done.

"How do you like it?" She asks. I open my mouth repeatedly like a fish out of water, unable to respond because I am so beside myself. All I can bring myself to do, due to my lack of an ability to be coherent, is turn and leap into my mother's arms, showing her my gratitude and affection physically.

"Thank you, so much," I squeak softly in her ear.

"There is no need to thank me, it didn't require much work, you were already so gorgeous to begin with," she assures me, pulling away and smiling at me with shining eyes. She stands up, causing me to copy her action.

"How about we go down to the Town Square now, where everyone can admire your beauty," she suggests, grinning with bright white teeth, as white as my dress. I smile admirably back up at her, before nodding in response.

"I'm ready," I reply with a curt laugh. My mother turns and makes her way out of the room, while I follow her in the same fashion. Maybe I will be just as beautiful as Ceres. If I could be, that would make my day.

* * *

 **Thomas "Edison" Edward**

 **~15~**

 **District 5**

The way I walk has been slightly altered, in order to accommodate the precious cargo in my pocket. I don't want to have to damage my father's letter more than it already is. I don't believe the way I walk is too noticeable, that would be a problem otherwise, I would just draw countless looks of confusion.

I shift my train of thought away from my father's letter, and back to the present task. The leaders of the orphanage are at the front of the group, being followed by all of us. Us, is every person in the orphanage from the ages of twelve to seventeen, the ones that have turned eighteen have already been relieved from their stay at the orphanage. The twelve year old's are huddled together towards the front, all shuffling feebly with solemn faces and looks of despair. They don't want to have to face the Reaping, but it's not as if they have a choice.

Some of them sniff and sob, failing to prevent the tears that fall from their cheeks and splash onto the hard-grey pavement below. That's right, pavement. I look around with curiosity, taking in the sights of the small city from a close point of view. After a whole year, I'm finally back here, surrounded by enormous structures and colorful aesthetics. It really isn't that breathtaking, but when you spend most of your time cooped up in one building, getting to see this is truly astonishing.

"I forget every year, just how massive this place is," Nema breathes in awe, as she glances around at the numerous buildings in the crowded and noisy street.

"I don't, I don't forget anything," I respond. She gives a hum of disapproval, whilst she shakes her head.

"Well, not everyone has such a vivid memory Thomas," she shoots back playfully.

"What counts, is that I do," I grin at her with amusement. She pinches me on the arm, laughing in response.

"Thomas?" She says, once she has settled down. I glance down at her, giving her my attention.

"Yes?" I respond. I can read her just the same as before, when she first entered my bedroom today. Despite it being Reaping Day, I can tell she is happy in my presence, and to be quite frank, I'm happy to be with her. She looks up at me affectionately, her face soft and full of love. I'm going to have to presume that it's because of me.

"I'm just. . . really glad that you like me as well," she says softly, smiling lovingly up at me.

"Well, you're lucky I do. There are a range of conditions that attribute to the notion of someone loving another, and there are different types of love. There is familial love, one that I am incapable of experiencing due to the lack of a family, and of course lov-"

"You really know how to ruin a romantic moment don't you?" She interrupts me, hands on her hips and her eyebrow raised. I open my mouth to say something back, but I decide against it seeing as I might ramble on again.

"Oh well, you're lucky you're cute," she giggles, squeezing my cheek. Before I reply, I'm momentarily distracted by the sudden introduction to a busy and packed Town Square. The orphanage owners inform the twelve year olds what they're meant to do, while the rest of us make our way towards the line to sign in.

"It gets busier every year," Nema exclaims in disbelief.

"Our population increases every year as well, it's the result of a reproducing society," I explain.

"That just means more kids for the Capitol to slaughter for their own entertainment," she says bitterly.

"Look on the bright side, you're not the one being Reaped," I point out.

"There is no bright side to this Thomas, plus, who's to say I won't be Reaped today? Or in the next three years?" She challenges me.

"To be fair, your odds are so miniscule that it's not even worth worrying. You have a higher chance of winning the Capitol Lottery, not that any of them need to," I compare, referring to the Capitolites.

"Well go on confident man, get your name checked and let's see what happens," she smirks, folding her arms. I shrug, before turning to find that I am at the front of the line. I take strong steps as I walk over to the desk, spotting a particularly bored looking Peacekeeper, yawning with her cheek against her hand.

I stick my finger out, as she sluggishly slips the device onto my finger. Staring at the device, I'm somehow able to predict the exact moment when it will make the noise, as well as puncture my finger. This helps me prepare myself for the pain. As soon as it does so, I slide it out and press my bloody finger against the box beside my name for my fingerprint. The whole process is complete in roughly eight seconds.

I turn back to Nema who is readying herself to sign in, winking at her before finding myself walking towards the fifteen-year-old section. The area is crowded, full of fearful looking children and solemn looking teens. Wading in and out through the clumped groups of sullen teenagers, I spot a bold sign that reads Fifteen-Year-Olds.

"It's impossible to see where you're going around here," I hear Nema complaining as she finally catches up to me. Apparently rather oblivious, she accidentally walks into my back, bumping her nose.

"Ow, Thomas!" She complains, rubbing her nose.

"I see where we need to go," I inform her, ignoring her complaint.

"Well go on, I'll follow," she replies, sounding nasally as she continues to massage it. I push past a few people, before making it to the entrance to the fifteen-year-old section. I make my way in deeper, hoping to get as close as I can to the stage. I want to be able to properly see what goes on.

"Why do you have to keep walking?" Nema asks.

"Do you want to be at the back? Do you want to be behind taller people so you can't see?" I ask.

"Good point," she mumbles.

"Don't fret, it'll be over before you know it," I assure her.

"How do you know that? It hasn't even started yet," she states.

"I beg to differ," I grin, as the crowd begins to quiet down. My eyes glance up to the stage, following the Victor's that make their way onto the stage. District 5 has only ever had four Victors, and only one of them have perished. Porter Millicent Tripp, the Victor of the 38th Hunger Games, is the unlucky individual. Her Hunger Games ended tragically with the District 4 girl stabbing her in the spine, paralyzing her legs. She had been sitting on top of Porter, however Porter managed to stab her in the neck, and somehow won. Unfortunately, over the years her spine got worse, and her paralysis spread.

She was unable to move from the neck down, and long story short, she ended up comatose after she ordered an Avox to give her enough medication to overdose. Her family decided to pull the plug. As tragic as that was, I wasn't alive to experience the sadness the District went through.

Other than Porter, our first Victor is still alive, Ramsay Lector of the 19th Hunger Games. I've seen his Games, and he was a savage tribute. Nowadays, not many people interact with him, I think because most people fear him even though he is an old man. Behind Ramsay, is Kemwell Taylor, Victor of the 55th Hunger Games, and last but certainly not least, Ceres Powell, Victor of the 75th Hunger Games, also known as the Quarter Quell.

Ceres is one of the most popular Victor's of the modern age, alongside her boyfriend Newton Tillford, fellow Victor of the 75th Hunger Games. She is very beautiful, which is undoubtedly part of the reason, but also because both District 3 and 5 weren't overly successful in acquiring Victor's in the past, yet they both somehow managed to win a Quarter Quell against all odds. It's a similar situation to District 12's Haymitch Abernathy.

"There's the mayor," I hear one of my fellow orphan's whisper. I glance towards the end of the stage, and indeed there is the mayor of District 5, Mayor Soleray. He waves politely as he makes his way towards the middle of the stage, directly behind the large pedestal. Once he reaches the middle, he holds up a hand to signal that he wants everyone to remain completely silent.

"Good afternoon District 5, and once again, welcome to another year where we are celebrating the 80th Annual Hunger Games!" He calls out. He turns slightly, holding out his hand towards the Victor's.

"I formally want to welcome our terrific Victor's, Ramsay Lector, Kemwell Taylor, and of course our most recent glory seeker, Ceres Powell!" He announces, earning them a round of applause.

"Of course, this wouldn't be a proper Reaping if I wasn't to introduce our lovely Capitol personal. Please give a warm welcome to our Escort, Solirel Hyderich!" He calls out, starting a polite round of applause for Solirel. I watch as Solirel makes her way onto the stage, waving politely and smiling at the crowd. One thing I've noticed over my four years of Reaping's, is that Solirel is a relatively passive Escort. I've seen the way other one's act, always being annoyingly enthusiastic and acting like they are so excited to be in a dump of a District, but Solirel isn't like that.

In all honesty, she comes across as rather humbled, she is polite, kind, even coming across as shy every now and then. She doesn't put on a big show, and is actually respectful of our District, and the fact that we are sending off kids to die. She was the one that Escorted Ceres to a victory, so I suppose she genuinely cares for her tributes.

She walks lightly towards the microphone, as people clap loudly for her. The way she acts has undoubtedly earned her the love of the District, one would think the other Escorts would take a note from her book.

"Greetings District 5, I'm honored to have the pleasure of visiting your wonderful District once again!" She announces with a bright smile.

"The time has come, to of course select one young man and one young woman, to fight for your glory in a battle of honor. So, as to not waste any more time, we shall do just that!" She exclaims, a flash of sympathy evident in her eyes.

Everyone's eyes follow her as she slowly makes her way over towards the female bowl. It's as if she is stalling it, she dreads the idea of selecting another incapable and innocent young girl. Last year, she selected a twelve-year-old, who actually proved to be relatively intelligent. I predicted the girl would come 15th. She placed 15th.

Solirel's frown starts to become prominent on her face, before she switches it up with a smile that displays her pearly white teeth. I squint on order to see the corners of her vibrant red lips twitching. The crowd hold their breath, as Solirel dips her hand inside the female bowl, diving into the sea of slips before remerging grasped onto one singular slip of paper. There it is, District 5's newest Dead tribute.

Solirel takes the slip and makes her way back towards the middle of the stage. People begin to murmur to one another, wishing each other good luck, assuring each other that it won't be them that gets chosen. In all honesty, I don't care who gets chosen, as long as it isn't Nema. I feel her beside me, tense as can be and clutching my arm hard enough it might snap. I roll my eyes, before I do the exact thing that I was being critical of other people for doing. Be reassuring.

"Don't worry, it's not going to be you," I whisper. Despite this, her face is as pale as can be, whilst her eyes are wide with fear.

"The female tribute for District 5 this year is. . . Tyka Brites."

Solirel's voice rings out throughout the Town Square, echoing off every building that surrounds the place. What comes after, is nothing but absolute silence. It's almost deafening, in a sense. My ears ring as they try to pick up the smallest of screams, the cry of a sob, just something to tell me that there is a reaction to this Tyka girl.

Many people have resorted to looking around, whilst others have their eyes rooted to the floor, not wanting to somehow be mistaken for Tyka. It's about ten seconds before there is a proper reaction. However, it's not the reaction I expected.

From my left, located in the fourteen-year-old section, I begin to pick up a singular girls giggles. They sound quite childish, and initially I'm dumbfounded. Is someone really laughing at a girl that has just been Reaped? Even I have to say, that's pretty dark.

However, as Tyka finally begins to make her way through the fourteen-year-old section, I can see a clear view of her. It's her that is giggling.

Tyka looks pretty childish in general, although she wears a relatively formal looking dress. It's a bright white in color, a white that would represent the purity and innocence of this child, had she not begun to laugh at this occurrence. Other than the dress, she appears quite young for her age.

Tyka has dark coal black hair, thin and long with a wispy sort of consistency to it. She has her hair tied back in a braid or something, I'm not good with hair, which makes her look about twelve. Her face is cute, with a little button nose and big doe eyes, that are a misty green in color. Her skin complexion is reasonably pale, whilst she has a couple of dots of freckles on her nose.

Her body is thin, with arms that look like twigs and a scrawny looking physique. To worsen that, she looks to be about 5'3", so she is pretty small as well. Despite her giggling, many people look at her with saddened expressions, seeing such a young and oblivious girl being shipped off to her death.

Oh well, it happens.

* * *

 **Tyka Brites**

 **~14~**

 **District 5**

I walk through the crowd of people, seeing the end coming ever so close. People around me glance at me with looks of confusion, examining every inch of my body. I giggle more, struggling to hide this behind my hand.

 _They really do think I'm pretty!_ I think excitedly. All of their attention is on me, I've never felt so important in my life. I must really appear beautiful, why else would they be so shocked to see me. People even move out of the way for me, stepping aside in a hurry in order for me to have a clear path to walk through.

"Thank you," I say, every time someone moves out of my way. My mother was right! I do look pretty! I wonder if the dress helps.

Eventually, I make it to the front, where I have a clear walk way towards the stairs of the stage. I cannot help but look up at the people on stage, being so close to them for the first time. There is Solirel, my goodness is she pretty. Her hair is long and black, with streaks of different colors running through the back of her hair. Just like my closet! Her skin is tanned, whilst her lips are a cherry red that reflects the light, due to how glossy they are. She stares at me with wide eyes, looking rather taken aback. Does she think I'm pretty as well?

My attention, becomes drawn to further back on the stage. My eyes see where the three Victor's are sat, and I cannot help but release a little gasp of shock.

 _She's. . . Beautiful._

Ceres Powell, the famous Victor, is staring directly at me! Her hair is a raven black, that is thick and long with waves that ripple through her hair. Her skin is olive in complexion, while her eyes are hazel and stunning. Her face looks smooth, and perfect, being completely symmetrical. Her body looks athletic and fit, like that of a goddess. She. . . is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.

"Why don't you come on up here sweetie," Solirel requests, the ghost of a smile on her face. Oh right, I need to go up on stage. I nod my head, before shuffling over towards the stairs and making my way up, nervousness spreading throughout my body like a plague.

Hold on, this isn't really a good thing. Sure, I'll get to meet Ceres, just like I've always wanted, but doesn't this mean I have to go into the Hunger Games? Don't I have to go into an arena, just like Ceres did, and fight for my life? Suddenly, I'm not so happy now. This is bad, I could die from this.

I reach the top of the stairs; my expression having completely shifted from flat out excitement to a troubled look. I begin to walk forward slowly, my breathing heavy as I get closer to Solirel, who holds her hand out lightly. I look slightly to my right, to see Ceres and the other Victor's watching me intently. Contrary to my frightened thoughts, a beacon of hope manages to shine through, when an idea forms in the back of my mind.

Maybe, I can become like Ceres! This could be my chance, maybe looking pretty was a sign! I look back at Ceres shyly, while both of us lock eye contact. I feel my chest flutter when she smiles reassuringly at me. Ceres just smiled at me!

"Haven't we got a radiant young woman right here," Solirel gushes, taking my hand lightly and leading me further towards the center.

"How are you doing today Tyka?" She asks. I look down as she raises the microphone to my mouth. Ooh, I've never gotten to speak into a microphone before.

"I'm good," I squeak, my head pulling back slightly in surprise, taken aback by how my voice sounds. I giggle, grinning at the microphone from behind my hands. That was so weird, my voice didn't even sound like it was coming from my mouth, it sounded like it was coming from both behind me, and to my far left and right. But it was so much louder than I intended it to be.

"Well it's great to be optimistic! So, on the topic of optimism, are you feeling confident about this year?" Solirel asks. I smile widely, looking up at Solirel. I nod enthusiastically in response.

"Oh yes Solirel, I'm hoping I can be just like Ceres," I exclaim, glancing back at Ceres with a hopeful look on my face. The crowd starts emitting a buzzing noise, similar to that of a beehive, as they talk amongst each other. Perhaps they have become hopeful that a tribute aspiring to be like Ceres has stepped up to the plate?

"Ah, well that's great! It's always great to have a motivated and driven tribute! I have no doubt you'll be a. . . strong contender," she commends me, smiling down at me with a creased forehead. I hope she is impressed, that's what she seems to be.

"How about, we find out who shall be joining you Tyka?" Solirel suggests. I shrug my shoulders, twisting my mouth in response.

"I guess so," I reply. In all honesty, I don't really care who will be joining me. I haven't really ever cared for the District 5 boy each year, they're just there to me. I always retain my focus on the girl, and this year, _I_ am the girl.

Everyone shifts their attention from me, towards Solirel once again. We all watch her as she makes her way towards the large glass bowl. I follow her arm with my eyes, as she reaches deep inside the slips of paper. When she takes her arm out, I see one slip trapped between her fingers. My District partner. She makes her way back towards the center of the stage, opening the slip and facing out towards the audience. Everyone seems to go silent, as she raises the microphone to her lips.

"And accompanying Tyka and myself this year is. . . Thomas Edward!"

It's just like it was when Solirel read out my name. Everyone is completely and utterly silent. But only for a moment. It's only a matter of time, before there is a commotion that occurs in the fifteen-year-old section.

"Fuck!" A voice shouts, drawing everyone's attention to its source. Suddenly, the people in front of Thomas begin to move out of the way.

"Are you fucking kidding? Dammit! Just as things are going my way!" Thomas cries out in a rage, as he storms through the crowd and emerges at the empty area up at the front. As soon as he reaches the front, a cameraman gets closer towards him, trying to get a close-up. Thomas turns towards him, rising up taller than the man with a clenched fist by his side. His other hand however, sticks the middle finger right up, facing towards the Captiol's camera.

Thomas is roughly 5'9", which seems like an average height for someone his age. His physique is rather slender, seeming relatively skinny, but not weakly so. His skin appears to be olive like mine, except a very pale variation of it, whilst his eyes are different from the average persons. The one on the right is a light brown, that almost appears orange, whilst the left appears a tad greyer, or even whiter, yet it is still brown. Both of them display hostility, and rage, unsurprising with how he is acting right now. Last of all, his hair is a dark brown, that almost looks black, which is very thick and tousled, messy appears to be his natural look.

Despite the estranged situation, of an aggravated tribute, I cannot help but giggle once again. It's as if my body does it instinctively, involuntarily. I know it isn't an appropriate time to laugh, yet I do it anyways. This does not go in my favor, when Thomas glares up at me, his face a grimace as he bores his vision into my face.

"What's so funny you little-"

"Thomas! Welcome to the stage, please, come join us!" Solirel interrupts him, cutting off what he was about to say to me. My giggles were cut off as soon as he began to speak to me, now I shake as he storms up the stairs. The entire time, he refuses to beak eye contact with me.

"So how confident are you Thomas?" Solirel asks him, trying to distract him from me. He finally looks away, and glances up at her.

"In all honesty Solirel, I'm just a little frustrated right now," he responds, taking a deep breath.

"I'm sure that'll change up a little as we get a move on," Solirel says optimistically.

"Unlikely, my death is basically imminent, with a one in twenty-four chance of making it out alive, it's most probable that I'm spending my last moments in District 5 as we speak," he comments bitterly, crossing his arms. I can't help but smirk a little. Maybe _he_ is, but I'm going to make it back, I know I will, I've got Ceres mentoring me!

"Keep faith Thomas, you never know what could happen," Solirel exclaims.

"I do actually, what wi-"

"That brings us to the end of our Reaping! As a sign of good grace, may the two selected tributes shake hands," Solirel requests. My eyes widen slightly, more out of fear than anything else. I don't want to touch Thomas, he seems scary. I turn slightly to see Thomas already thrusting his arm out, with his head turned away and teeth gritted. I slowly reach out, before timidly grabbing his hand. I let out a gasp when he violently shakes it, and let's go without so much as a word.

"District 5, you're tributes for the 80th Annual Hunger Games! Tyka Brites and Thomas Edward!" Solirel announces, grabbing my hand and Thomas', and thrusting it high into the air. I can't help but feel my face flush with excitement. I-I'm holding Solirel's hand! She keeps our hands in the air for as long as the applause lasts, before she lowers them down and we are surrounded by Peacekeeper's.

"Come on Miss Brites," one of them grunts, before lightly leading me away.

I can't wait for the Train Ride, that means I can speak to Ceres for the first time ever!

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hey guys! Back again with another Reaping, introducing our District 5 tributes, Tyka Brites and Thomas "Edison" Edward, submitted by** _I believe in nargles too_ **and** _kingofkong1_ **respectively.**

 **What did you guys think? Firstly, I just want to say that both of these tributes were very complex to write. Thomas has a few things going for him, that will be touched on in time, but his character was a rather complex one. Tyka, was even more difficult. If you couldn't tell, Tyka has Mild Autism, and seeing as it was a completely new thing for me to write about, it was rather difficult. I know she seems a bit childish, but she will mature, trust me, and Nargles, if she seems more immature than you initially pictured her, that will change, it was just the autism coming through. I feel that she did begin to show her more mature side in her second POV though, so I hope I did her justice.**

 **Tyka displayed various instances of autism during her POV's, such as an obsession with order and tidiness (the closet), being proud of something that seems like a masterpiece to her even though to anyone else it would be brushed off as if it was nothing (once again spending seemingly ages on her closet), mood swings (crying and becoming upset at miniscule things, and laughing at inappropriate times), an attachment to one thing that means the world to them (Ceres), are just some of them. So please do tell me if I did a good job, this is something important to me as I've never written through the eyes of someone with any form of autism, be it mild or full.**

 **Anyways, what were your thoughts on Thomas and Tyka? Do you like them? How do you think they will place? I love hearing your guys feedback, because it really does help me out! Also, I think Thomas just copped the biggest cock-block ever, what an unlucky kid :/**

 **District 6 I hope to get out soon, I'm really excited for it because I've got some strong and detailed tributes to work with! See you guys then!**


	9. District 6: Iskra and Zen

**Reaping VI**

* * *

 _Repent : /rɪˈpɛnt/_

(re-pent)

feel or express sincere regret or remorse about one's wrongdoing or sin.

 _"the Padre urged his listeners to repent"_

* * *

 **Zephyr "Zen" Arkwright**

 **~17~**

 **District 6**

How long can I keep this up? I often find myself asking this question, always seeming to doubt my commitment. Do I really not have faith in myself? Do I really struggle to believe that I can indeed keep this up? It's been a long time, two years to be exact, which is an eternity to some when keeping up this lifestyle. Sacrifices, and isolation, don't tend to work well for many, no matter how much one forces their self to do so.

I reflect on when I first began doing this, exactly what I am doing now. Sitting in the center of an abandoned, decrepit and earthy room. Nature threatens to retake the infrastructure, and soon enough the walls, floor, and ceiling will be immersed in nature. Why fight it though? It's what nature intends to do, there is no need to ruin such a serene place.

Sometimes, it is cold, clammy, the crisp frozen air revealing the whiteness of the breath I allow to escape my steady mouth. Sometimes, it is rather neutral, with thundering storms, and heavy torrential rains that leak through the copious amounts of gaps in the ceiling. These conditions leave me drenched, and shivering, yet I push through every time. It's the way of connecting myself to my inner strength, the core of what makes me a peaceful and passive human.

Sometimes, the weather is unbearably hot, with the room heating up to temperatures that feel like an oven. The type of heat that makes distant roads appears to be full of puddles of water, that fade away when you get close to them because in reality, it's only the heat rebounding off the scorching asphalt.

However, luckily today is not a day that beholds any type of these extreme weather conditions. The room is slightly dark, of course due to the shade from the trees that cover the holes in the ceiling, but some still display vibrant rays of sunlight, that shine through and light up portions of the floor, and in result, the room. I can see each individual particle of dust, and anything that may fall from the trees as they pass through the sunlight.

I smile lightly, as my eyes wander to capture the entirety of this room. To anyone just arriving, it would be an old, rundown building that's ugly and needs to either be renovated, or destroyed. To me, I see the beauty that it truly does display. It feels like home to me now, after two years of course, of visiting this room.

The question is, what is it that I do in this room? Why do I still question myself doing to this day? The doubting and questioning is undoubtedly my old life poking through, somewhere from its deep and shunned position in my body, in my mind. I've managed to cast away the negative thoughts, and the unhealthy, truly unforgivable ways of living that it used to thrive on.

I close my eyes, my smile widening as I chuckle with a slight shake of the head. 'Unforgivable', that is not the case. No matter what people do, everyone deserves a second chance, everyone can come back from something that has put them into their darkest stages of their life.

It's simple what I did, a life full of negative influence and a rampant lifestyle, seemingly unchangeable to most. Part of changing this, was as laughable as it sounds, meditating. That's what I am doing now, and what I have done every day from the very moment I vowed to change my ways.

I rest upon a comfortable patch of grass, being soft and lush despite growing through the cracked stone floor. My legs are contorted in a crossed position, easily so as well. I remember when I first began to meditate, sitting this way killed me. It felt so unnatural, it stretched my groin to its limit and caused my back to become stiff and sore by the end of every session. However, I learned that in order to beat this agony, I was to remain committed and consistent, until eventually my legs were so flexible, that it felt blissful to cross them.

In addition, my hands rest lightly on my knees, face down as I hold my patella softly. It's quite frankly overkill to have them facing up, with fingers formed in a circle. There is no need, as long as I could separate my mind from the current environment, I could learn to calm down, and find my inner peace.

That was towards the beginning. Nowadays, I don't need to focus so much on doing this anymore, because at long last, I have learned to retain a permanently harmonious view on the world. I can now think back and reflect, I can laugh, I can do whatever pleases me and makes me happy the most, because it isn't drugs, or sex, or hurting anyone else. It's enjoying my own peace.

"Zen?" A light voice says. Zephyr may be my name, even though it is the name of my old life, I have kept it. It's still me, it's still my identity. However, people just like me, believe the nickname of 'Zen' is much more fitting, for simplified circumstances, as well as my improved lifestyle of meditating, similar to that of the ancient monks of Buddhism, who lived hundreds of years ago.

I open my eyes, my sight locating the person that has spoken. He's a rather pudgy boy, just a bit younger than me. His eyes are wide like dinner plates, with a portly sort of face that makes him look slightly flustered. His hair is black, just like anyone from District 6, while his eyes are a grey adaption of the typical blue. His voice is soft, intended not to be demeaning in any way, while his body language makes him seem rather guilty.

I smile at the boy, in order to make him more comfortable. There was once I time when I would have bullied this kid, I would have made him feel insecure about his physique, I would have called him something along the lines of a pig, just because of the way he looks. I probably would have even physically abused him, just for the fun of it. Not anymore, those days are over. Now, this kid is my follower, he is my second, he is my most trusted friend.

"Morgan," I say quietly, acknowledging him.

"I-I'm sorry to be interrupting your meditation session," he says rather timidly, appearing distressed that he has to do so.

"Not to worry, I was just finishing up," I reassure him, before standing up and taking slow steps towards him.

"Is there something you needed to tell me?" I ask. I would imagine that is the reason Morgan is attempting to seek me out, he only ever does so when someone new has entered what is our monastery. It isn't much for a monastery, it's true purpose used to serve as a simple train station, more so a docking station for all the stationary trains. It was abandoned as the train yard was relocated, and it seems to have been forgotten. When I initially stumbled upon it, aside from the deterioration, it somehow wasn't damaged, looted, or graffitied by delinquents.

Since I started up this place of salvation, I have acquired a following of people, seeking that salvation, and the ability to repent, or start over their lives. Some, such as Morgan, who was an orphan, had nothing else. There have been multiple instances when District 6's government has intended to tear the place down, yet fortunately for us, I have been able to pay them off each time.

 _One of the few advantages from my old life, as a rich, partying, playboy,_ I think to myself.

"Yes, I did come here to speak to you," Morgan continues. I raise my eyebrow, giving him my attention.

"Well, lay it on me," I instruct him. Morgan opens his mouth to speak, however he is completely interrupted by two people that burst through the doors, storming towards me.

"Zen, there are two assholes that have turned up, and they are being incredibly rude," the first person complains. My eyes rest on Cecelia, a young and relatively beautiful woman in her late twenties. Her face is creased with concern, with a dark look evident in her eyes.

"Cecelia, that is no way to refer to someone," I say quietly. She stops short, eyes widening when she realized what she said, before she stands up straight and lowers her gaze. Cecelia sought the monastery, because she lived a life that nobody should be forced to live. With nothing left to help support her, she was forced to resort to prostitution in District 6's downtown, unfortunately one of the most notorious crime riddled places in all of Panem. The dangerous life of having to fend for herself, understandably left her with a long journey to settling down.

"They're distressing most of the others, and they say they won't leave until they have spoken to you. I think they know you, well at least one of them seems to," the other person informs me. I look at the man, a pitiful middle aged father named Roland. He sought the help of me when he was on the brink of ending it all, after losing a child to the Bloodbath of a Hunger Games. According to Roland, his wife withered away due to her sorrows, and Roland turned to a darker means of living, including Morphling, violence, robbery, and in some cases, murder. Some of my followers considered Roland dangerous, but my beliefs are different. Everyone deserves a second chance, and an opportunity to repent, especially if that individual is seeking it.

I sigh, once I have heard what Roland said. Just from that, I can already predict who may have come to see me. I am not surprised that he is running around in such a fashion. I hold my hand up before Roland can say anything more.

"Lead me to these people," I instruct the three of them. Each one of them file out of the room, with me at the back so they can lead me to the entrance of the building. We exit into a long train station, with a rough platform and an abandoned bullet train on the tracks. The ceiling has a long opening, where the sunny sky can be seen with lime green trees shading the room below. The entrance is located more towards the middle, which has a gated door that one of my followers was capable of firing up to work again, so now it can lock and open to specific people.

It leads towards the old bullet train, one that used to be used for bringing tributes to the Capitol. They serve as our sleeping quarters, with countless rooms that can serve up to one hundred people. I ignore the train however, as my intentions are to go to the entrance.

"Here they are," Cecelia mutters bitterly, pointing towards the two men as soon as we turn the corner. I continue to walk towards them, hearing their obnoxious and boisterous voices booming throughout the otherwise peaceful building.

"Gentlemen, can I help you?" I ask, stopping at a distance. The two of them turn to me, the first one grinning wildly.

"Brother! What a delight it is to see you!" My older brother Damien bellows. I raise an eyebrow at him, repressing the urge to shudder as I examine him. Damien Arkwright, is just like how I used to be, and always has been this way. Sure, he did play a part in influencing me, and to this day he never lets me forget who I used to be. I always see my old self in him, and it makes me feel regret every time.

"Damien, what is your business here? I have told you, only come here if you are seeking to change your ways," I scold him, crossing my arms.

"We just figured, since it's Reaping Day, we would come and wish you luck," the other guy says, stepping out from behind my brother. I recognize the man instantly, Connor Raymond, Victor of the 72nd Hunger Games. He is our most recent Victor, and already I see he is following the path of some of our other Victor's. Two of our past Victors have died from Morphling overdose, and this party animal is starting to follow in the same direction.

Connor and Damien have been friends for years, the two of them are both twenty-five now. Damien has always been the wilder one, and Connor has only let himself become reduced to my brother's ways after his victory. Perhaps a coping mechanism?

"I don't need luck, although I appreciate the gesture," I reply.

"Of course you need luck little bro, after all, if you do get Reaped, what's going to happen? You can't win with a lifestyle like this? If you're so against violence and killing, how are you meant to make it out?" Damien questions, a stupid grin on his dim-witted face.

"I can defend myself if I need, I'm not against self-defense," I answer him. He smirks at me, before laughing hysterically.

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that little brother," he chokes out.

"You could refer to me by my name, I would find that more respectful," I suggest.

"What, _Zen_? Come on, you're Zephyr, you always have been Zephyr, and you always will be Zephyr," he argues.

"Not here I'm not, I am no longer that person on the inside," I deny.

"That's where you're wrong, Zephyr. You will always have that side to you. Sure, you mask it out now, and you refuse to let it erupt. But, under the right circumstances, you would crack. You won't retain this peaceful manner, you may not go back to the way you were, but you will be forced to become at least semi-normal again," he states curtly, poking a finger into my chest. Everyone stands still, absolutely silent as they watch us two brothers face off. Damien stares gloatingly at me, waiting for a response.

 _He's trying to get a rise out of me, he wants me to break._

I refuse to do so. Despite my anger levels rising significantly higher, I find my inner peace. I can't allow my brother to do this, he can't win.

"I think it's best if you go now," I say quietly, yet clearly. My brother smirks in amusement, before leaning back and crossing his arms.

"Very well _Zen._ I want you to remember this conversation, I don't want my little brother to be killed on the streets of Downtown Six just because he refuses to get his hands dirty. Let's go Connor," he says, nodding his head at the Victor. Damien strides out of the exit, whilst Connor turns to me.

"I sincerely wish you good luck Zen, if you do intend on keeping this up and somehow get Reaped, I don't know how you're going to cope," he murmurs, before turning on his heel and joining my brother as they walk away from the monastery. I watch the two as they get further into the distance, thinking about what Connor just said. I would manage, some way or another.

"Morgan," I say softly.

"Yes Zen?" He says attentively.

"Fetch those of us between the ages of twelve and eighteen, we leave for the Town Square now."

* * *

 _Bastard : /ˈbɑːstəd,ˈbastəd/_

(ba-star-d)

a person born of parents not married to each other.

 _"he has nothing to inherit, he is a bastard!"_

* * *

 **Iskra Novak**

 **~15~**

 **District 6**

I cannot help but allow the expression of distaste to contort on my face, as I glance down at the street below. A large fight has broken out, and people are brawling all over the street, with many pulling out homemade weapons of sleek iron blades, or bruising boisterous objects meant for bludgeoning someone to death.

Such 'unheard' of news, people attempting to kill each other in Downtown Six. It's not like that's ever happened before, it's completely and utterly shocking. I can't help but roll my eyes at the idea. If only it was rare, unfortunately however, it's all but uncommon.

"What do you think it's about this time? Morphling? Something gang related?" I ask quietly, attempting to sound monotone about the whole thing. It's not a good idea to show that this stuff gets to you when living in Downtown Six. We do have a reputation for being the worst place to live in Panem, even worse than the Seam of District 12. The key to thriving, is to show no emotion, to show that oneself is unaffected. That's how you keep in the shadows, otherwise, you'll be robbed with the first sign of weakness.

"It could be anything really Iskra, it's the norm after all," my boss replies, as he fiddles with our latest project. Jack Trane, the only one that ever truly cared about me. He is more of a father than I ever got to experience, I count him as my family more so than my actual blood. I turn to him, seeing that he is focused on our project and has not even turned to see the commotion outside, on the street below.

"Do you think Jett is down there?" I ask, a hint of concern evident in my tone. I hear Jack sigh, before he slides out from underneath the vehicle, and sits up with a grunt.

"Iskra, I'm sure this Jett fellow that you've spoken about is fine, don't worry about him," he assures me.

"How can I not Jack?! He's involved with a dangerous business, and if people found out. . ." I trail off before I can finish the sentence, because the thought of it concerns me too much. What I intended to say, is sort of a taboo thing in society, and not just District 6. It started when we were young, the two of us met when we were both trying to fend for ourselves in this wretched shit hole. On the streets, we learnt street smarts together, and how to survive. We stuck by one another, not just because we became friends, and partners in crime as a result, but because we were dependent on one another.

See, both Jett and I, are bastards. Two unfortunate children born out of wedlock, with nothing to amount to, nothing to inherit, and considered the vermin of society. Bastards are shunned, outcast, and have run scarce with the introduction to it being so horrible. Even the criminals of District 6, target those who they see to be sub-human, that being us bastards. It's rare to find anyone so tolerant of bastards, such as Jack, so for most bastards, they live in denial. They always try to hide the fact, that they aren't a true born child.

Suddenly, I feel a rough hand lightly grasp my shoulder. I look up, seeing Jack watching the fights down below.

"I understand you're worried for him, especially seeing as he was born out of wedlock, but from my standpoint, I am so much more concerned for your safety," Jack informs me. In response, I twist my mouth in concern.

"Plus, how the hell are they going to know he is a bastard? To those thugs, he is just another Morphling dealer," Jack points out. Jett was never that clever with actual education. When it came to street smarts and being sneaky, he was simply a genius, a thousand times better than I would ever have hoped to be. This led him to being a successful Morphling dealer, whilst I sought other means of income. Jett always wanted me to be his dealing partner, he thought we could rule the drug industry together, but the idiot never considered that I had my own aspirations, my own desires.

"I haven't seen him in a couple of weeks," I murmur, turning away from the window as I am unable to bear the sight of Downtown Six anymore. Jack shrugs his shoulders.

"You said he was successful, right? Perhaps he earned so much money that he packed his things and moved into the Cloud Suburbs," Jack suggests. I shake my head, disagreeing with his theory. District 6 is a very divided District. Each District has their own suburbs, of rich, and poor, and middle class. Our situation on the other hand, is drastically different. There are only two halves of District 6, because of how out of hand Downtown has become. A wall was built to separate Downtown from the Cloud Suburbs, where all of the poor, the criminals, the bastards, the whores, were forced to live. There are virtually barely any Peacekeeper's in the Downtown half of the District, as it's too dangerous for small groups of law enforcement, and nobody wants to work here.

You need special documentation, or a lot of money to be able to pass through to the Cloud Suburbs, the richer and thriving part of District 6. Bastards are unwelcome, of course, unless one was to become a Victor, or had special permission. It's referred to as the Cloud Suburbs because they go up into a mountainous terrain, which overlooks the slums of District 6. Many people have attempted to sneak into the Cloud Suburbs, by digging, hiding in vehicles, climbing the walls, and multiple other ways. They are extremely heavy on lockdown with guards and an electric fence, so it's rare to actually make it into the Cloud Suburbs illegally.

"He wouldn't make it to the Cloud Suburbs, not only is he a bastard, but they would question how a bastard came to accumulate such wealth, if he somehow has made enough to attempt to buy his way in," I counter his theory.

"Iskra, I didn't take you in as my apprentice to have you worry over a boy. We have a job to do, let's get this over with," Jack instructs me. I sigh, glancing one last time at the street below, before shaking my head to snap out of my thoughts. I need to focus, I can't change the way a District functions! No matter what I do, Downtown will always be like this. I make my way over towards the vehicle that we have begun to work on.

Or perhaps I can change the way this portion of the District is run.

Our latest project focuses on an idea I pitched to Jack a few months ago, with blue prints and all. I look at the basic model of what we have started. It is sort of a vehicle, but not just any vehicle, but a completely contollrable mech-suit. It's sleek metal armor is thick and nearly indestructible, with built in weaponry and a small manhole that the user can fit inside. The suit will move to the user's actions, whilst it can practically be used for war.

This, is the ticket I had, to letting a highly-qualified mechanic and engineer, take me, a lowly but cunning bastard, into his workforce. This, is the ticket that both of us have, to make it into the Cloud Suburbs, for a better life. The plan is simple, we finish the prototype, and we sell the idea and blueprints to the officials of the Cloud Suburbs. After that, we mass produce them, and earn a heap of money while living in the safety of the higher part of the District. These mech-suits, are just what the Peacekeepers need to get a handle on Downtown, to take control from the drug lords and thugs. This is the key, to the rest of my life.

"These are the last few days we need to refurbish this hunk of metal, and once we're done with that, it's the time we have been waiting for, for years!" Jack grins, rubbing his hands together with excitement.

"You really think they'll let me in?" I ask with a raised eyebrow, and my hands on my hips. Jack looks at me as if I was crazy.

"Will they let you in? You're giving them an opportunity to bring peace and prosperity to an otherwise corrupt and dangerous portion of their District, that is notorious for the highest murder rate in all of Panem. Yeah, I think there is a good chance they'll accept a bastard for that. They don't have a problem with bastard Victor's either, although the two bastard Victor's we had overdosed a couple of years ago," Jack murmurs.

"You've got a point," I reply, his statement rekindling my desire to reach those clean, safe, streets of the Cloud Suburbs.

"Let's just hope you don't get Reaped, that would throw a spanner into the works," he comments. I snort in response.

"Honestly, the odds are incredibly low. Even if I was Reaped, you know how to finish this baby off, I just. . . have to make it home, that's all," I say with a smirk, although sounding rather disheartened.

"Hey, no need to worry about that, you're not going to be Reaped. It'll probably be another street orphan," he predicts. It's a few seconds before he catches me glaring at him, where he appears to realize what he just said. A look of guilt washes over his face,

" _I'm_ a street orphan," I grunt.

"Well, not exactly, your mother's still alive as far as we know," he adds. I scoff at what he says, almost laughing cruelly.

"My mother the prostitute, she's probably off fucking some drug lord for his money," I spit bitterly. Mercedes Tyshenko is my mother's maiden name, and seeing as she never married my father, Benz Novak, that left me as a bastard. I haven't seen my mother in years, I left her at a young age because her line of work was too dangerous to be around, plus, I vowed I would kill myself before I had to resort to prostitution. I suppose she was doing what she had to do to get by, but it doesn't help that she made my life a living hell, being born out of wedlock, allowing my father to overdose on Morphling just to avoid the responsibility of raising me. What a pitiful life I have had.

Before anything else can be said, a series of rapid knocks can be heard against the door into the workshop. The two of us immediately glance at the door, eyes wide and tense with alarm. Jack looks at me, before whispering something my way.

"Get the axe, I'll get the machete," he whispers. I nod back in an instant, before I race towards the door and grab the axe meant for emergencies. This counts as an emergency, right? We weren't expecting any visitors today, so the fact that someone is at the door is already significantly concerning me. The axe is tightly gripped in my hands, whilst Jack begins making his way slowly over towards the door. The knocking occurs once more, seeming more rapid than it had the first time. I breathe deeply, before looking through a small peek hole in the door. I gasp at the person I see.

"Jett?!" I cry out, before flinging open the door and greeting him. He doesn't say a word, instead he barges into the room, before slamming himself into the door to close it. After locking the door as many times as he can, he begins to pace around the room erratically.

"Hey, Jett, what's going on?!" I ask. He glances at me wildly.

"They're looking for me, the people in the street below, some of them are trying to kill me," he murmurs, sitting down and hiding his face behind his hands. He looks awful, unwashed, slim, gaunt, what the hell happened to him?

"These people are looking for you? Why are you here?! I can get killed for having one bastard in this place, yet alone two, plus one that is already on the run," Jack cries out in paranoia.

"They don't know I'm a bastard, nor do they know Iskra is, trust me, I would be dead otherwise," Jett replies.

"Well they are certainly trying to make that a reality," Jack counters. Jett glances at me.

"Iskra, you can't make me go back out there, please, I've done something very bad, and they'll torture and kill me if they find me," Jett pleads.

"Iskra, he needs to leave now, I'm not dying because of this kid," Jack says bluntly. I bite my lip, unsure of what to do. I don't want to betray my friend, no matter how deep in trouble he is. I also don't want to get in trouble with Jack, the only man that's ever given me a chance. I'm torn between a decision, a seemingly impossible one to choose. After a few moments, I finally come up with a decision.

"We need to go to the Reaping anyways. I'll go with Jett, and make sure he stays undercover," I inform the two of them.

"Iskra, thank you, so much," he says wearily.

"Fine, I guess that's okay. Just stay safe, and find somewhere for Jett to stay. I can't allow him to return after the Reaping," Jack explains, almost sympathetically. I nod, before grabbing a large cloak with a hood from the wall. I throw it at Jett, who catches it with a fumble.

"Put this on, we need to go now, before these people start looking through buildings," I instruct. He nods, before standing up and heading towards the door. What am I getting myself into?

* * *

 **Zephyr "Zen" Arkwright**

 **~17~**

 **District 6**

The surrounding area is completely and utterly silent. That's not much of an issue to me, I'm used to the quiet environment of the monastery, so I'm in no mindset to be upset by the questionable silence that I experience now. It's not always like this, especially seeing as I live in the Downtown section of the District.

I didn't always live here of course, and I have every opportunity that I want to simply cross back over into the Cloud Suburbs, where my rich family lives. I choose not to though, I like living at the monastery, plus it's one of the few places where all people are welcome, even those that are considered lesser like whores and bastards.

Anyways, living in Downtown and having to go into the city portion every now and then, I have experienced how loud and rampant the place is. With all of the violent and criminal activity that is shown in Downtown Six, one would expect the atmosphere to be incredibly loud where I am now. That isn't the case.

Eligible kids have been forced to go into a check-in station right beside the wall, before they are permitted to enter the Town Square, which has been protected for years on the other side of the wall. It actually isn't entirely on the other side, there is a section in between too walls, where the Town Square is located. The Cloud Suburbs are further along, and don't permit anyone to pass without permission.

The reason it is so silent, is because all of the 'bad crowd' has been forced to separate from their children. They were directed to a large viewing platform that is blocked off by thick bullet proof glass. They can watch what happens down below, but they can only hear the things that happen from the live recording on the TV. The parents from the Cloud Suburbs, like my own, are perfectly allowed to watch from the stands behind the eligible children.

We now enter an entrance point that is heavily guarded, with groups and groups of Peacekeepers keeping a watch and retaining the peace. At the front, the kids are permitted to walk through body scanners, in order to check for weapons. There are never any guns, since District people no matter how rich, are not allowed to have guns. A black market for guns and narcotics was shut down fifty or so years ago, and it hasn't resurfaced. That's when people begin to make their own weapons, with scrap metal from the trains, hovercrafts, and cars we develop.

"We did gather all of the eligible kids, right?" I question Morgan, making sure he did his job. I don't want any Peacekeepers storming through the monastery and executing eligible kids for not attending.

"I'm confident we did Zen. I counted twelve, including you and I," he replies. I nod my head in approval.

"Good, I don't want anyone's death to be held responsible by you, or me," I murmur.

"Zen, I was thinking about what your brother said, do you really think you would. . . Go back to your roots?" He asks hesitantly. I glance down at the floor, breathing heavily through my nose in shame. If only I could prevent my past self from doing any of that. But would I do it? Perhaps not, it was my lesson, my eye opener, the reason I went through that, is to become what I am today, right? So surely, I wouldn't stoop that low again, no matter the circumstance. I can't help but chuckle softly. Here I go doubting myself again.

"I would like to think not Morgan, and I will try my hardest to prevent such a thing from happening, but if I have to ever defend myself, I'll try to do it as passively as possible," I reply.

"I-I, really don't feel comfortable here," he mutters from behind me. I turn to look at him, meanwhile spotting numerous people sending him greasy looks. Many scowl at him, while others give him outright death glares. I frown with concern, knowing why this is happening to Morgan. It's because Morgan is a known bastard.

"Filth," someone shouts at him.

"Vermin," another screams. He looks down at the floor in shame, sighing heavily as he puts up with the name calling.

"Don't let them get to you Morgan. Remember, connect to your inner peace," I encourage him. He looks up at me, tears welling up in his eyes. He opens his mouth to reply, but is interrupted by the harsh grunt of a Peacekeeper ordering me to sign in.

"This is it Morgan, I'll see you back at the monastery," I smile, before slapping him playfully on the shoulder. I turn around and walk tensely towards the desk. It's always slightly more deterring having to sign in from the Downtown section of District 6. Usually, the Peacekeepers are a lot more aggressive and not so tolerant.

I step through the body scanner, thankfully not hearing a beep due to not having any weaponry on me. The Peacekeeper aims a thumb behind him, towards the desk, motioning for me to move along. I step towards the desk, lightly holding out my index finger to put into the little device. I'm slightly taken aback when the Peacekeeper aggressively grabs my finger, before jamming it into the device. I relax my body in preparation for the stinging sensation of the prick, before it emits the signifying noise and pierces my finger.

As I press my finger onto the paper, after locating my name, the Peacekeeper examines what I presume to be my name popping up on the device's screen. She appears confused, as she looks up at me and back at the device.

"Zephyr Arkwright. Says here you are from the Cloud Suburbs, why are you living in Downtown?" She asks, appearing repulsed by the idea. I smile warmly at her.

"To help those that are less fortunate, to give them a chance at a new outlook on life," I inform her softly. She snorts at my comment.

"Ha, your funeral. Please move along, I'm almost through with these people," she explains, referring to the supposed 'scum' of Downtown. I nod, before stepping aside and wading my way through the crowd of children. Eventually, I find myself in the seventeen-year-old section, surrounded by a mix of fearful and nervous privileged people, and bitter threatening Downtown poor folk.

After a wait of roughly ten minutes, the tense atmosphere is silenced by the beginning of the Reaping. Everyone pays attention to the stage, as the Victor's begin to make their way out. Overall, District 6 has had five Victors, which for an outlying and partially corrupt District, is quite an effort. Unfortunately, only three of them are living, and it isn't exactly the old ones that have perished. The first one that has died is Lio Morling, Victor of the 36th Hunger Games, whilst the second one to perish was Terrance Reese, Victor of the 51st Hunger Games. The two of them were complete Morphling addicts, entirely because they wanted to block out the horrors they experienced in the arena. Interestingly enough, the two of them were the Victor's that won by chance, by hiding and surviving till the end. Terrance died from a Morphling overdose, and two years later, Lio died from the exact same thing. Perhaps I should have directed Lio to the monastery while I had the chance.

The oldest living Victor that we have is the first to enter the stage, Bullet Stevens of the 21st Hunger Games. He was incredibly fast, hence his name of Bullet, although I'm pretty sure it initially came from the idea of a bullet train. Coincidentally, it worked in his favor, because he was so fast that nobody could catch him, and he could take people by complete surprise and be out in an instant.

Next is Tracker Davis, Victor of the 61st Hunger Games. He was incredibly resourceful, and had a great sense of direction and hunting. The last person to enter the stage, is our most recent Victor, the one and only Connor Raymond of the 72nd Hunger Games, and best friend to my dear older brother. His face is solemn, and he almost looks distant from his current whereabouts. That's a familiar look, he is high on Morphling. I can't help but hum in disapproval, concern making my chest feel twisted.

When the mayor walks on stage, Mayor Bolton, the response is relatively mixed. There is light applause from the rich, whilst there is virtually none from the poor. I turn around, glancing up at the stand for the Downtown folk, behind the bullet proof glass. Many of them appear to be shouting, banging on the window, and making obscene gestures, despite us not being able to hear them.

"Good afternoon, fellow District 6 citizens. Welcome, once again, to another year of the Hunger Games. This year we are celebrating the 80th Annual Hunger Games, where we will be selecting one young man, and woman, to partake in this year's contest. Hopefully this year, we will be fortunate enough to house yet another Victor," Mayor Bolton calls out, sweating profusely and pulling at his collar. Man, is he nervous, I understand why though, he has a clear view of the murderous crowd.

"Uh, to speed this along, I will now introduce our dashing Escort, Tiffany Areltye!" He calls out, before backing away from the microphone and plonking down on his seat. The crowd applauds as an indeed dashing young Tiffany walks out on stage, waving lightly at the crowd as she obviously is rather intimidated by being in District 6. She has been an Escort for a few years now though, so it's nothing new to her, at least I hope.

"Greetings District 6! It is that time of year once again, and I sure am excited to see what we together, have to offer this year!" She beams. That's quite surprising, since we haven't done well since Connor won, but it is good to be optimistic, since I have learnt that is a key to happiness. Perhaps we can have some luck this year, that would be great!

"The time has come to select our first tribute, so let's get into this," Tiffany announces, before setting down the microphone and taking a few steps towards the female bowl. Many of the girls have begun to speak to one another now, with last minute 'good lucks'. Tiffany arrives at the bowl, where she allows her hand to explore the contents of the glass orb. After sifting through waves of paper slips, she eventually chooses one, dragging it out of the bowl and holding it high up in the air for everyone to see. I notice that the people behind the bullet proof glass have become silent, likely due to the possibility that their daughter may be chosen.

Tiffany slowly makes her way back over to the microphone, before leaning forward and calling out the name of the girl.

"Our first tribute is. . . Iskra Novak!"

As usual, there is no immediate reaction. Sometimes, there will be an angry outburst from an aggressive tribute, whilst other times it is a wail of sorrow from a younger tribute. Most often, it's just silence, till of course the poor tribute begins to make their way to the front. This takes a few moments for this Iskra girl, but eventually I see someone beginning to make their way through the fifteen-year-old section.

It's when Iskra makes it to the front, that I finally get a good look at her. Iskra has black wavy hair, worn in a messy bun. She has a few strands of hair that fall by her face, showing that she finds her hair to be a rather unimportant thing. She has big blue eyes, a sky blue that is typical of District 6, with pale skin that could be considered porcelain, if it weren't for how dirty it was. She is a tad short, which is expected of fifteen, with a skinny figure that leads me to believe she doesn't often have a good meal.

She wears a black mechanic uniform, with the jacket tied around her waist by the sleeves, and a white t-shirt that she would have been wearing underneath. The suit is complete with combat boots, and a belt that I assume would have been used for tools, although I am unsure if she was smart enough to leave them behind or had them confiscated when she signed in. Her face, arms, and white shirt all have a dark oil stain splattered over them, from evidentially a busy morning in the workshop. I have no doubt she is from Downtown Six, who from the Cloud Suburbs would allow their child to go to a Reaping looking so messy?

She walks very stiffly, and slowly, likely as she is still absorbing what has happened. Her expression is hard to read, but I know she is trying to look determined. I hope for her sake, that she has a reason to be determined.

* * *

 **Iskra Novak**

 **~15~**

 **District 6**

Just my luck, huh? One moment, I'm just where I want to be, with a successful and promising path to becoming what I aspire to become, a mechanic, with a possibility of leaving the rundown and dangerous streets of the poor side of District 6, to stay in the rich, and more importantly, safe, part of the District. The next moment, I'm being shipped off to my likely death. It's funny how life just loves to keep screwing me over.

All I've ever wanted, is to live in a civilized society. All I've ever wanted, is to be safe. How the hell can I do that when I'm being forced to go into an arena where the majority of the other people in there will be attempting to kill me? On top of that, I will be a known bastard now, so even if I do make it out alive, it's going to be a long journey to seek acceptance.

But I have to make it back, I need to. I promised Jack, and even though I'm being sent away, this is my ticket to making it into a better life. Perhaps this was meant to happen, in order for me to finally reach that safe ground in the Victor's Village. In District 6, it is practically a myth that a Victor's Village exists, because it's so high up in the Cloud District, that it's the furthest away from the dangers of Downtown.

The civilians of the Victor's Village, currently stare at me as I slowly make my way up towards the stage. I glance back with an apprehensive look, spotting Jett's tall figure, masked by the dark hooded cloak. His face is solemn, and he watches on with a frown. There's not much he can do, all he can do is stay safe for me.

With a sigh, I walk towards the stairs, rising up them one by one. All eyes are on me as I reach the top, causing me to close my eyes and take a quick but deep breath. As I open them, and begin walking to the center of the stage, I realize how high up I am. I look to my right, spotting the other side of the stage, the side that isn't visible to those that stand in front. I realize I stare at a gaping hole in the wall, one that appears to be an entrance to the Cloud Suburbs. Initially, I didn't recognize it, as the entrance I came through was heavily fortified, and full of metal detectors and booths for signing in. I spot the booths further outside, but the entrance itself is completely void of anything else. It gives me a clear view into the other side of the District, a place I have never gotten to see before.

Somehow, it's an excitable, and calming sensation. I'm no longer full of worry from being Reaped, but I am completely fascinated by this sight. It looks. . . phenomenal! Clean vacant roads, towering buildings with a tidy environment and full of flora, opposed to my side which is flat out gloomy and depressing. As I stare briefly at the small portion of the other side that I can see, I have one thought.

 _I am going to get there, no matter what it takes._

As I make my way further along, my vision graces Connor Raymond. He blankly watches me, his mouth partially open and his eyes vacant of emotion, or conscious for that matter. He blinks perhaps every thirty seconds, and his chest rises and falls at a particularly slow rate. I don't do anything when I look at him, it doesn't take me by surprise that he is high on Morphling. A couple of years ago, when I still stuck by Jett, he was one of the people that would come to Jett for Morphling. I guess word got out that he sold quality product. It saddens me slightly that he has started to resort to Morphling to cope with what he experienced. I almost brush it off, before something alarming pops into my head.

 _He's meant to be mentoring me this year. How the hell is he going to do that while under the influence of Morphling?_

Suddenly, I'm significantly less confident in my chances. Connor and Tracker are mentoring this year, since Bullet is much too old to do so. Tracker isn't a major issue, seeing as he has been successful with Connor and to my knowledge, hasn't succumbed to the temptations of Morphling usage. But Connor, he is going to be an issue. If it is only Tracker himself that is going to be guiding us, we may as well be District 12 with one mentor. Then again, Haymitch is just as bad as Connor with alcoholism, in fact, he may be worse. Connor has only begun to use the drug in recent years, while Haymitch has been an alcoholic since roughly the 55th Hunger Games.

"Welcome to the stage Iskra, come join me," Tiffany encourages, waving her hand to signify that she wants me to come closer. I step beside her, before looking out over the crowd. They all stare at me, it feels like I have a million lasers firing into every inch of my body. I feel so. . . vulnerable.

"How does it feel to be this year's female tribute?" Tiffany asks, before raising the microphone to my lips. The silence is deafening, as people wait for my response. What do I say? Do I tell them that I'm happy to be a tribute? Or do I tell them how I really feel? I somehow believe that if I do that, it won't work in my favor.

"I feel. . . a little shocked, but I'm ready to give it my all," I reply, only half honest. I left out the anger which I believe was a wise decision.

"Well that's expected, but it's always endearing to hear that the selected tribute is ready to face the contest! We shall leave the rest of yourself a mystery Iskra, of course until Interview night! I think it's time to find out who shall be joining you this year," Tiffany beams.

"Thank you," I reply, actually meaning it, mainly for her not dragging out this wretched event. I watch carefully as Tiffany makes her way towards the male bowl. Due to District 6's insanely large population, the boys bowl is full to the brink, just like the girl's bowl. This time, Tiffany simply plucks one off the top, before taking it with her back over to the microphone. The boys in the crowd look nervous, while the girls look relieved due to their safety. I lock eyes with Jett once more, as he looks up at me wearily. If he gets Reaped, I don't know what I'm going to do. I can only hope, that he is luckier than I.

"And the tribute joining Iskra for the 80th Hunger Games is. . . Zephyr Arkwright!"

As soon as Zephyr's name has been called, people begin to murmur in confusion from the seventeen-year-old section. It seems as though Zephyr has begun to walk up straight away, with no problem in doing so.

"Huh? Did she say Zephyr Arkwright?" I hear Connor of all people, ask Tracker. Does Connor know Zephyr? Or did he mishear the name that Tiffany called out. It's a few seconds for me to wait until Zephyr makes it to the front, which gives me a clear view of him. Once I lay eyes upon him, I am given a vague hint of recognition. I think he is the guy that runs that peaceful group, at the abandoned Train Station. He used to be a real playboy sort of guy, in fact I think he is from the Cloud Suburbs. So why on Earth did he come to the hell hole that I live in?

Zephyr has a stunning pair of blue eyes, very similar to mine and most in District 6. His skin is of a fair complexion, whilst he has a seemingly thick lot of hair on his head, that is relatively neat and well-kept for someone living in the corrupt side of the District. I will admit, this factor is unsurprising if he truly did originate from the Cloud Suburbs. His facial features are very handsome, and surprisingly soft, giving him a calm and loving sort of expression. It isn't creased with anger or concern at being Reaped, it just appears flaccid. His body is quite toned, and appears athletic in structure, whilst he looks quite tall, perhaps 6'1" as an estimate.

He gives the conception that he has had a life of being fed, and he has focused a lot on physical activity, and maintaining a healthy lifestyle. On top of that, my god is he attractive. I was expecting the typical ratty scumbag sort of guy to be my District partner, but I am pleased to be surprised by what Tiffany has unintentionally selected. He also appears to be taking the fact that he has been Reaped incredibly well. Perhaps a little too well.

Worry shoots through my chest, as I realize the little game he may be playing. Already he is quite an attractive boy, which is sure to attract a few sponsors, but in addition, this absolutely flawless act that he is giving the Capitol, is sure to be putting him in their good books. A tribute that isn't scared, doesn't seem forced, isn't absolutely angry, but a tribute that walks up with an accepting smile plastered on their face? It's too good to be true.

As he makes his way up the stairs, I fold my arms and slightly raise an eyebrow at him. Just in case, I want to show that I'm not buying his act, if that is an act of course.

"W-wow, what a delightful selection we have acquired! Zephyr please do join me!" Tiffany beams. I'm tempted to glare at her, and tempted to gag at the same time, her obvious attraction to him sickening me.

"No problem," he smiles, as he stops right beside her.

"Now Zephyr, how are you feeling about being chosen?" Tiffany asks.

"Please, call me Zen," he laughs. Tiffany blushes, as she fans her face.

"As for your question, I can't say I'm too upset, if this is what fate wants, then this is what fate will have for me," he smiles humbly.

"Ooh, very inspirational! Now how do you feel about your chances?" Tiffany asks, beaming at him.

"I can't imagine what will happen as of now, but I suppose I'll just have to do it as passively as I can," Zen informs her. I glance behind me when I hear Connor groan helplessly.

"Oh goodness am I excited! I'm sure you will be quite the force to be reckoned with!" Tiffany exclaims.

"That brings us to the end of the Reaping!" Tiffany cries out towards the audience. Directly after she says this, Zen turns to me, reaching out his hand with a modest look on his face. I turn to him, reaching for his hand before grabbing it lightly. It's not sweaty either, is Zen really that okay with being Reaped? After we have shaken hands, we both let go and turn back to the audience, as Tiffany grabs both of our hands, and raises them high in the air.

"District 6, I present to you your two tributes for the 80th Annual Hunger Games, Iskra Novak and Zen Arkwright!" Tiffany exclaims. We are treated to a polite round of applause, which takes me aback, coming from such a hostile group of people. Before the crowd disperses, both Zen and I are led away towards the entrance for the Cloud Suburbs. The Town Square is located in the Cloud Suburbs after all. I would be excited, but I'm too distracted by watching Zen, and not because of his good looks either. It's because, as terrible as it is to say, as of now, I don't trust him.

I better keep my eye on Zephyr Arkwright.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Hey guys! I'm back once again with our two District 6 tributes, Iskra Novak and Zephyr "Zen" Arkwright, submitted by** _Duchess of Irony_ **and** _The Pocketwatch Ripper_ **respectively. Half way through! Finally! I better not get too excited though, I still have six District's to get through.**

 **So, for further stories, and anyone reading this, I really want people to take into account District 6's current situation when submitting here. The tribute can be from two sides, they can be from Downtown Six, or the Cloud Suburbs. I did it like this because I'm bored of having District 6 be completely corrupt and full of Morphling addicts in so many SYOT's. In this universe, it's only confined to one half of the District, and who knows how long that will last if Jack is successful with these law enforcement mech-suits. Anyways, I hope I didn't go overboard with the bastard thing, but I think I got the point across. Bastards are outcast, and generally hated by all, and yes, inspired by Game of Thrones. But Bastards are seen as hated especially in District 6 due to overpopulation, and the fact that 99.9% of the time, they are accidents and considered dishonorable. In addition, there a quite a few due to rape being a prominent thing in District 6, and the alternative is dangerous back alley abortions. Hope you enjoyed this little insight to District 6, I went into detail on the structure of this District because I just want to establish it. I know, it's quite dark, isn't it?**

 **Enough of that! What did you think of Iskra and Zen? What will their impact be? How far will they make it? All of that good stuff I would love to know! This is my longest chapter yet, so I better wrap it up!**

 **Thanks for reading! Please find it in your time to leave a review as nothing motivates me more than hearing your guys feedback and thoughts! District 7 is next, I'm not sure how soon I'll be able to get it out since my summer holidays are unfortunately coming to an end in the near future, plus I have quite a bit of holiday homework to do. Final year of high school, here I come!**

 **To wrap up this 9,500 word chapter, see you next chapter!**


	10. District 7: Ebony and Masin

**Reaping VII**

 _WARNING: Mentioning's and Implications of Suicide and Self Harm_

* * *

 _Anguish : /ˈaŋɡwɪʃ/_

(an-gwee-sh)

severe mental or physical pain or suffering.

 _"she shut her eyes in anguish"_

* * *

 **Masin Hurst**

 **~16~**

 **District 7**

I wake up with a start, as opposed to my usual drowsy and groggy method. If I had my choice, I would be sleeping in until at least late afternoon, especially because of last night. Ugh, my head hurts so bad, it practically feels like someone is bashing a hammer into my skull, it's as if my brain is imploding on itself. That's why, I should never mix tequila and vodka again, no matter how crazy the party.

It's not just any ordinary reason that I have woken up abruptly, and rather frightfully may I add. The reasoning, something so scary it should never be mentioned. My mother, standing over me with crossed arms and the sternest expression I've ever seen someone produce. She eyes me with fury, mouth contorted into a grimace and forehead creased in annoyance.

I back up against my bed frame, eyes wide and taken by surprise. Why did I come home? I shouldn't have come home in the state I was presumably in, not to my nutcase of a mother.

"So, look who decided to wake up," she sneers, voice flat without the slightest hint of amusement in it.

"G-good morning mother," I reply, not knowing how else I could possibly reply to her. She scoffs at what I said.

"Good morning? Is that a joke? No, it is not a good morning. You should be ashamed of yourself!" She screams. Oh no, here is where it begins. The lecture, the threats, the guilt provoking.

"I'm sorry," I reply instantly, not knowing how else to seek her forgiveness. My eyes flicker downwards slightly, spotting the small wooden crucifix. The wood is worn, and chipped in certain places, not that it matters to my mother. It's the sentimental value that it holds, that really matters to her.

I grip my bed-sheets, forehead creased in worry as I stare at her livid expression. Why does it have to be me? Why am I the one with the vividly religious mother? In this day and age, religion is almost obsolete, non-existent, extinct. It died out a long time ago, especially during the worldly disasters. Many people lost faith in their religion, because what God what inflict such death and destruction on their creation? There were the few that stuck to their religion, believing it was the reckoning of God, and that this was his way of cleansing the unworthy of such a corrupt society. Even fewer survived themselves.

My mother, was evidently brought up with the influence and teachings of religion, specifically the Christian faith. This lifestyle formed her to become a fanatic, aggressively committed to her faith and beliefs, and critical of those who did not share her views. She obviously is incredibly against such juvenile acts, of drinking underage, sex before marriage, anything that isn't innocent.

So, as I shy away from my mother, ashamed to be in her presence with the looming threat of punishment, I anticipate the repercussions of my unfaithful actions.

"You must repent," she commands, almost robotically. I gasp as I see her grit her teeth, before pinching my ear lobe with utmost pressure. I cry out when she pulls hard, dragging me off the bed as I try to relieve the pain she induces on my ear.

"Mother! Please. . . Let go!" I screech, afraid of what is coming. When I was younger, my mother was even worse, with extreme punishments inflicted on me in order for me to learn my lesson. I would be locked away for hours at a time, forced to kneel and pray, and brainwashed into thinking I was always under the watchful eye of God. Sometimes she would force me to go so dangerously close to the fire, that I could as she put it 'feel what it was like to experience the true wrath of Hell'. As far as I was concerned, the physical abuse was the most tolerable part of her punishments, the psychological abuse was the most tormenting, the most damaging.

That was of course, until my uncle moved in. Aldir Hurst, the twin brother to my father, Barkus. He always hated my mother, and hated my father somewhat forever tying the knot with her. Regardless, Uncle Aldir has been more of a father than my own ever has been. My true father has rarely ever been around, not that I blame him, his main concern has always been having enough money to support our family. But he never was there to stick up for me, to help me, to teach his wife how to properly treat and love her own son. I only ever experienced that, when Uncle Aldir came into my life. Upon seeing the punishments my mother, Hazel, would inflict on me as a result of not abiding to God's ways, which is essentially her ways. He detested this vile woman, and he was outraged when he watched her stick my head close to the blazing fire, inches away from permanent scarring.

Screaming matches were a common thing between the two, my mother remaining stubborn and persistent, while my outraged uncle attempted to change her ways. It was a few years, until the day he snapped, threatening her with promises of death if she ever subjected me to such extreme punishments again. My mother feeling threatened enough, relented and dropped her forceful teachings. The punishments became scarce, whilst she was now under the watchful eye of Uncle Aldir. I was rarely hit, slapped, kicked, and eventually I went weeks without being spoken to by my mother.

So, as I am dragged across the floor, by the searing pain of my ear gripped between her fingers, I try to remember that she won't harm me. She can't harm me, even if she wants to. I grunt as my hip smacks the door-frame as we exit the bedroom, and my ear that is relatively safe from my mother's grip, picks up the sound of my body scraping across the rough wooden floorboards.

 _Where is she taking me?_ I wonder frantically. Through blurred eyes that are drowned with held back tears, I manage to make out the front door, and the entrance hallway. She throws me forward, releasing my ear and causing me to slam against the splintery floor. I blink away any tears that remain, and I glance down in a sickened horror. No wonder she is so mad.

There is so much vomit on the ground, that it looks like someone spilled a whole liter of chunky oatmeal. It has splattered everywhere like a tsunami, and it appears that someone walked right through it in a not-so straight walking path, as there are foot prints in the vomit, and footprints made from the vomit. The raw smell of spirits lingers from the cold and clammy chowder, whilst the pungent scent of barf is so ripe that it burns my nostrils. I begin to dry retch, heaving as much as my body forces, except nothing comes up. I must have vomited everything in my stomach last night.

"Look at what you've done you pestilential delinquent! Underage drinking?! If you think you're still getting into heaven when you die, and at this rate it will be before you're twenty, then you are certainly mistaking!" She spits.

"Perhaps it'll be sooner, maybe I should just end it all, would that make you happy?" I hiss back, her suggestion that I am going to die so soon making my chest squirm with angst.

"Why would that make me happy? To have _my_ son commit suicide and be condemned to Hell? What would I have to say to that?" She replies darkly. I cannot help but feel the anger surge through my system.

"You wouldn't even be upset if your son killed himself? You would only care about your own image and reputation?" I question her through gritted teeth. The tears begin running down my cheeks yet again, not because I'm sad, not because I'm scared, but because I'm angry. I'm furious that my mother can be such a heartless woman. I would have thought that such a fanatic follower of the Christian Faith would learn to love their fellow human beings, just like Jesus had preached.

"Y-you're a monster," I mutter softly.

"But am I a monster child? Or am I simply the bringer of the human incarnation of the devil, the deliverer of his corrupted seed, the reason you are the flawed way you are, mind brainwashed by Lucifer, the true archangel of darkness. For if this is true, I am the reason this monster exists, but I am certainly not the monster itself," she almost chants, voice monotone as can be.

"What do you mean? I'm not brainwashed by the devil! There is no devil!" I almost scream. My mother simply glares at me.

"Then who is to blame for this!?" She cries out, rolling my sleeve up forcefully and revealing the harsh and jagged cuts, that have been etched longways down the length of my arm. The cuts have barely begun to heal, whilst the outside of them appears red and inflamed. I instantly tear my arm away from her, eyes wide with shock. How did she know? I haven't told anybody about this! Absolutely nobody. . . except one person.

I back away from her, rising to my feet and shaking with a mixture of rage and shock. I keep my arm behind my back, so she can no longer see my wrist. How does she dare to claim my mental illness is an influence of the devil?

"You must repent for your actions, you must pray for the lord's forgiveness," she demands, walking towards me slowly.

"No! Get away from me!" I roar, before ducking underneath her outstretched arms, and racing for the door. I barge through, running down the street with heavy breathing. My head pounds even harder with the sudden physical activity, but I push through it. I must.

District 7 is alive with people, families flushing out onto the street as they prepare to make their way to the Town Square. I wade in and out of them, whilst they give me looks of annoyance for almost crashing into them. I don't care what they think however, my thoughts are too occupied by one goal. I start to get closer to the small strip of stores that are close to my house, seeing one particularly large building that has people swarming towards it. These people aren't families and young children however, they are typically young or middle aged lumberjacks, covered in wood chips and most still holding their own personal axes.

Why am I heading towards this bar? Because I know that is where Uncle Aldir will be, drinking away and possibly almost passed out. I push open the door, rather intimidated by the atmosphere of gruff older men. Most of the time, they're fairly friendly, but it's Reaping Day, so they are more bitter. Many give me strange looks as I walk in with my head lowered. I slowly rub my wrist, my cutting wrist, feeling the abnormal lines left behind underneath my sleeve.

"You okay there buddy?" A man asks, flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, and tanned skin plentiful with scratches and scars. It reminds me even more of my scars.

"I-I'm fine, I'm just looking for someone," I mutter. The man looks at me blankly, appearing quite confused.

"Huh? I couldn't hear you," he replies over the noise of the bar. Before I can respond, I spot a familiar figure from across the bar, sitting on a stool with a large glass of a murky yellow liquid. Beer. Just the thought of alcohol makes my stomach churn. I begin walking towards the man, leaving the other guy without another word. I hear him call out to me, before swearing and storming off.

The man sits with his face pressed against his hand. He glares up at the TV above, a program that shows clips of two of the Reapings that have already occurred. It appears to be District 5 and District 9. I shake my head, before tapping the man on the shoulder, causing Uncle Aldir to turn and face me. In a moment's notice, he beams at me, bringing an arm around my shoulder and squeezing me tightly.

"Ma-asin, how're you g-going buddy?" He slurs, making no effort to mask the hiccups that interrupt his sentence.

"W-we need to talk," I say softly, before grabbing his arm and pulling him off the stool.

"Hey, my drink," he complains.

"There isn't any time for that. I need to speak to you before the Reaping starts," I inform him, as I lead him outside of the bar.

* * *

 _Lucifer : /ˈluːsɪfə/_

(loo-see-fur)

An archangel most commonly associated with falling from grace

 _"That King whose life collapsed, is essentially the personification of Lucifer"_

* * *

 **Ebony Pineneedle**

 **~18~**

 **District 7**

I watch as the boy enters the bar, noting his distressed face, and the look of anguish embedded onto it. I don't blame the poor kid, it is Reaping Day after all. I must admit, it was rather strange to see, as he appeared quite erratic, and on the verge of breaking down. In fact, he was running down the street, almost crashing into families and little kids. Well, I'm not in the position to judge, so I decide to brush the thought from my mind.

I sigh, now glancing down at the cobbled road, my eyes tracing the cracks and obscure patterns the stones make. It's not as if I have anything better to do. If I reveal myself, I'll just draw unnecessary and quite frankly unwanted attention. I'm sort of an infamous person in this District.

The alley is dark, with drainage leaks causing water droplets to leak all around me, whilst I sit with my back against the rough wooden wall. It's damp, and dark, nothing new to me anymore, at least I've had the opportunity to get used to it. Very little light manages to trespass the cramped and rodent infested alley that is my home, which in a sense, is quite a lucky aspect of this place. That way, nobody will be purposefully snooping around in here, and discovering me. As of now, it's my favorite abode that I have claimed, I'm right beside the fruit and vegetable store, meaning I get to eat whatever they throw out, although it's hard to stomach, as well as having a great view of the lake near the bar. When the sun sets over the lake, I get a glimpse of my own memories, where I used to watch the sunsets from on top of the District.

I try very hard to forget about my past, to accept and embrace the present as there is no way of clawing my way back to where I once was. Having used to have it all, I can't deny that this drastic change has been the hardest thing I've ever had to face. No person should ever have to fall so hard. . . except for the person that is responsible for this. My father. Oh, do I dare speak his name? Do I want that wretched man's legacy to grace my thoughts? If I had a choice, I would abolish him from my mind forever. Yet, I cannot do that, meaning I have the horrid memory of my horrid father implanted in my mind, and my thoughts, the face of Eldory Pineneedle, former Mayor of District 7.

As soon as I think the name, my body surges with anger and spite, bitterness morphing my body into a tense and rigid state. Oh, how I despise that man. He ruined my life, my hopes and dreams, my will to live. He is the reason why I question my existence each day, why I ask myself 'why am I still here?' I want to scream, I want to destroy my surroundings, I want to explode and rid myself of the anger I feel. But I can't bring myself to do so.

I slam my fist on the ground, feeling the impacting pain shoot up my wrist. I feel as my back falls against the wall in defeat, tiring due to the lack of energy I have. What's the point of getting angry anymore? All it does is remind me of who I am, Ebony Pineneedle, the girl that once had everything she could have asked for, now hated by the District and cast to the slums. It can't be all bad though, if it becomes that way then I may as well give up hope of survival. The 'slums' of District 7, are hard to consider slums. Every place in District 7 is simply beautiful, the surrounding nature and forest aroma truly making the poorest area seem like a simplistic but humble area. The people here may be the most poverty stricken in this District, but the cabins and little stores that are in this area make the whole town look like a getaway camp.

It calms me down, the idea of the warm sun shining through the trees, the smell of pine in the breeze as I rest beside an icy lake with a warm and minuscule fire set up. If I was capable of surviving like that on my own, and being able to scavenge my own food, I would simply live as a hermit. Perhaps if I taught myself to survive, and if I acquired an axe to use as a weapon and get resources, I could achieve this feat.

My thoughts are momentarily distracted when I spot the door to the bar slam open, shortly followed by the boy dragging an older man behind him. I examine the boy's face, seeing he feels worried, scared even, which is a strange sight to see. I have to judge the man as being his father, so why would he appear scared when he is in the presence of his guardian. For some reason, this rubs me the wrong way. Is this boy okay?

As the boy leads the man down the street, I'm tempted to follow them, to see if everything is okay for this boy, but mainly because I have nothing better to do, however in the end I decide against it. It's none of my business, and I have a feeling that if I, the daughter of the failed Mayor Eldory Pineneedle, was to go snooping in someone else's business, then it wouldn't go down so well. So, I leave it, backing away further from the opening into the alley, and into the darkness that is my home.

I feel my stomach growl; the roar being demanding for food. I sigh, rubbing the slender excuse that I have as a stomach. I have lost so much weight in the time since my father's fall. From having three meals a day, to barely being able to scrape a single meal together for days at a time, it has to have been the worst thing that I have had to experience. The cold I can live with, but the hunger is agonizing.

The Reaping begins in just over half an hour, so I suppose I should treat myself for such a 'special' occasion. I scurry over to the dumpster, which rests right under the window of the fruit and vegetable store. The scent is repulsive, the dumpster permanently engraved with the sour and rotten smell of off fruit. I wrinkle my nose up at it, before peering inside to hopefully meet a surprise of brown bananas, or perhaps some strawberries that are still salvageable. However, when I do look inside, I would even be thankful for an apple's core. This is due to the fact, that there is nothing in there.

I'm immediately alarmed, as this is the time of week that all off products are thrown out by this store. Why on earth is there nothing here?! I let out a croak of a cry, feeling a tear well up in my eye. I defeatedly lean against the dumpster, sliding down to the ground with the last bit of hope I had.

This is the third day without food. I can't cope much longer, I think I'm going to go insane if I don't get ahold of any food. I wrap my arms around my legs, burying my face into my knees, and sobbing hysterically. I heave my sorrow into my own personal space, wishing to stifle myself so I don't draw any attention for someone that could be walking by. Why does this have to happen to me? Why must the Capitol be so cruel?

I should have thought about this back when I was wealthy. I could have helped people, I could have made our family liked by the District, and when the Capitol had inevitably cast us down, and stripped us of our status and wealth, perhaps the families of District 7 would have been more than willing to take me in, to help me out. But it's much too late for that, my father screwed it up from the very moment he was elected.

It started during the 56th Hunger Games, the year he was elected. He made so many promises to the people of District 7, with glory, wealth, opportunities. They were empowered, and ready for a leader who would bring upon our success. However, they were all lies. All he ever wanted was to get the Mayor position, and he said whatever he had to say in order to get there. Once he finally won, he went back on everything he had promised our people. He raised taxes, he destroyed jobs, he damaged our reputation, all in order to appeal to the Capitol. It worked, the Capitol loved him for it. District 7 grew to be worth millions, whilst the people grew poor and unhappy.

When I was born, our family had acquired so much hate, that there were riots beneath our mansion. I had seventeen years of wealth, and fame, but my father grew distressed. He feared for our lives, assassinations, he grew erratic, and believed that danger was always around the corner. In order to try and appeal more to the people, Eldory Pineneedle did the single most stupid thing a man can do. What he did, ruined my life, presumably killed my mother, and destroyed him, wherever he is now.

All he did was lower taxes down by 0.5%, in order to try and make the citizens happy. But he had gone too far, already, it did nothing to improve the people's view of him. The people of District 7 still loathed him, and the Capitol saw him as weak, and not hard enough on the District as he had been once before. President Snow no longer believed he was fit to lead, and stripped us of everything. Without anything to protect me, I was exposed to the District. Anyone could punish our family by hurting me, anyone could take out their anger, I was a target to anybody that hated the Pineneedle's.

I gasp when my stomach begins hurting, almost feeling as if it is being stabbed. A sharp and jerking pain that repeatedly hits me in the hollow empty space that is my gut. I squeeze my eyes tightly, holding back the tears that threaten to show. I can't stay like this any longer, I need food. I shakily push myself up off the floor, before taking weak steps over towards the corner of the alley. Off the floor, I pick up the one thing that keeps me warm at night, the only other thing I permanently own. A long black cloak, with a large cloak that conceals my face from sight. It is the only way I'm able to get around without being recognized by other people. Perhaps I can use it to get some food.

I slip the cloak over my head, feeling my arms slip through the soft sleeves, before my head pokes through the top. I make sure to raise the hood, feeling it sliding over my dirty head and casting a shadow over my pale face. It was once clean and tanned, but now it is pale and gritty. Although a year or two ago that would have disturbed me, I have no care for it anymore. I have more important matters to consider. I shuffle towards the opening of the alley, wiping away the few remaining tears. I peer out carefully, alarmed at how many people are out on the street now. I should have done this earlier, but I have no choice now.

I quickly drift into the street immersing myself in the large group of people. I feel my breathing pick up, becoming rapid as my nerves begin to increase. It's been a long time since I've been around so many people, and I can't help but have the concern in the back of my mind that someone may recognize me.

 _No, nobody will Ebony. You are a survivor. Stay focused,_ I scold myself. I casually make my way towards the entrance of the store, staring at the ground so nobody looks me directly in the eyes. I enter the store, and am taken aback by how packed the store is. People must be getting the last few treats for their after-Reaping celebrations. I wade through people, making my way around the store, before I spot exactly what I want to eat. A small container of big bright strawberries, almost the last one as well. No wonder they haven't thrown any food out today, they've been able to sell all of the old food before it could go bad.

I look side to side, making sure nobody is looking directly at me. I'm sure someone will notice at some point, but hopefully that will be once I've exited the store. I take a deep breath, feeling my back tense in anticipation and slight fear. I've only ever had to steal a couple of times to pass by, mainly during the winter when food is most scarce. This however, is a dire situation. Of I don't get to eat soon, it will be too long before this store gets fresh produce, and therefore more food to throw out.

I shut my eyes, picturing what I'm going to do before I do it. Now, it is time. I swipe the strawberries from the shelf, swiftly slipping them under the baggy cloak. I don't look to see of anyone saw me, I rather just turn immediately for the door, striding through it and speed walking down the street. Once I get far away enough, I begin to jog, causing me to feel the stiffness and feeble structure of my joints.

"Hey, get back here!" I hear a man roar from behind me. Luckily for me, I'm too far away. After hearing the man's words, I begin to sprint, without looking back so he doesn't see my face.

"I hope you get Reaped you piece of shit!" He bellows, voice now even more distant. Initially, I'm hurt by the statement. Hoping that someone gets Reaped is essentially wishing death upon that individual, which in itself is a horrid thought to bear. I do suppose I deserved it though, I did just steal from his store.

As I run into a cluster of trees, I kneel down behind them, digging into the strawberries and stuffing my face with them hungrily. The sweet and sherbet like taste explodes on my taste buds, and the feeling of food going down my throat is strangely satisfying. It's the best feeling I've ever felt. However, as I stuff my face with the fruit, I can't help but think about the man's words. They bounce back and forth in my mind, before a light bulb is lit deep inside my thoughts. Today is the Reaping, an event that selects people to compete for a life of riches, fame, and glory.

The cogs begin to turn in my head, before the components of an idea slot into one another. Perhaps, I won't be living life like this for much longer. . .

* * *

 **Masin Hurst**

 **~16~**

 **District 7**

"You told my mother?!" I cry out. Uncle Aldir sways back and forth slightly, attempting to stand up straight despite his slightly drunken state. I had led him down the street, until we were in a quieter area that's wasn't riddled with families taking their children to the Reaping. We stand behind a building, that is on the brink of occupying the forest space.

He looks at me blankly, before he displays an expression of utter confusion.

"W-what?" He asks, slurring slightly.

"You told my mother about this!" I say angrily, pulling up my sleeve and showing him the red lines that have been carved into the flesh. He glances at it groggily, before his eyes widen.

"Masin, I-I'm so sorry, I must have accidentally mentioned it when I was drunk," he groans. He puts his head in his hands, sighing heavily.

"God dammit, what have I done?" He asks himself. I twist my mouth in disapproval. Having to see my role model in such a state of self-loathing, it really puts me down.

"She thinks I'm the anti-christ, just because I'm not a perfect person in her image," I mention softly. Uncle Aldir produces an aggravated look upon his face, gritting his teeth and scowling heavily.

"That bitch, I'm going to go home now, and teach her a lesson," he spits, before standing up straight and beginning to walk off.

"No, you're not," I instruct him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. He grunts, before leaning back against the wall of the building.

"Please, Uncle Aldir, you're all I've really got. I've got a horrid mother, an almost non-existent father, fake friends, mere acquaintances, I can't lose you as well. Can you please make an effort to stop drinking?" I request softly. His eyes widen at my words.

"Masin, that's like asking the Capitol to stop the Hunger Games, it's impossible," he attempts to explain.

"No, it isn't, because you're actually capable of doing that request. At this point, President Snow is too far in to stop the Games," I justify. He sighs, before sinking to the floor, legs sprawled out in front of him.

"You know, I hate you seeing me like this," he says quietly, hiccupping at the end.

"You deserve so much better, and I can't help but destroy my own life which significantly effects your own," he continues.

"We can make it better, as soon as you stop drinking and start working again, we can move out. I can even try and get a job soon as well," I suggest, sharing the possibilities that could come with getting his life on track.

"I-If I must, I think I can try and stray away from the bar for a while," he mumbles. I open my mouth to voice my approval, however I am interrupted by a thundering ringing of a bell. My eyes widen heavily, as I realize what that means.

"Oh shit," I mutter.

"What?" Uncle Aldir croaks.

"The Reaping! They just rang the bell, it begins in ten minutes!" I cry out in a panic. I leap to my feet, before trying to pull him to his own feet.

"Masin, don't worry about me, I'll find my own way," he informs me.

"But aren't you worried about the Peacekeepers?" I ask worriedly.

"I don't have any children. It's not as important if I don't attend on time, so run!" He instructs. I nod, before turning and running forward. I sprint to the street, noticing how empty it is compared to before. There are a few shopkeepers sweeping the pavement in front of their stores, and a few drunken men stumbling out of the bar. I don't see a single child or worried parent, which makes me worried for my own safety. I need to go now.

I race past the store owner of the fruit and vegetable store, in the midst of a heated explanation with a Peacekeeper.

"I watched the person slip the strawberries into their robes and race out of the store, that's all I can tell you! I didn't see their face!" He shouts.

"Watch your tone, I'm the authority here. I can't do anything without any reports on their distinguishable features," the Peacekeeper explains.

"Fuck!" The shop owner roars, before I get too far away to hear their conversation. It sounds like he was robbed, that's unfortunate. Not as unfortunate as I'll be if I'm late to the Reaping. In four short minutes, however, with the help of knowledge of key shortcuts, I manage to make my way to the Town Square. The line for getting ticked off is relatively short due to the large majority of people already being entered in.

I stop behind a timid young girl, with pale blonde hair and a stony face completely drained of color. She doesn't pay any attention to me when I stop behind her, huffing and puffing as I attempt to regain my breath, and steady my heart beat.

"Did. . . I. . . Make it?" I ask nobody through hefty breaths.

"Barley, you're lucky kid," a Peacekeeper informs me.

"Yeah, lucky," I murmur to myself spitefully.

"Next," a Peacekeeper further ahead commands. The young girl takes steady steps forward, until she reaches the desk and formally gets checked off. I watch as her bright blue eyes begin swimming with tears upon getting pricked for her blood. She blinks them away a moment later, refusing to let them fall. I can't help but admire her, I wasn't anywhere near that strong during my first Reaping. The pain reminded me of the cuts that I inflicted upon myself, and the tears that I shed as I had done it.

When the Peacekeeper calls out for me, I shake the morbid thoughts of my past away. I take shaky steps forward, sticking out my finger face down. The woman glances up at me, clearly unamused.

"You're going to need to face your fingerprint upwards unless you want this to pierce your fingernail," she states harshly.

"Oh, uh, yes, sorry," I mutter softly, changing the direction of my finger. I'm used to facing the arm downwards, to conceal the scars of my wrist, despite the sleeves that hide them anyways.

Now frustrated, the woman jams my finger into the little device, which causes me to wince. When I feel the pain of the prick, I'm barely phased however. I'm too used to pain like it.

"Masin Hurst, please make your way to the sixteen-year-old section," she instructs as I place my bloody fingerprint beside my name on a sheet of paper.

"Yes of course," I obey, before turning and making my way towards the sixteen-year-old section. I recognize a few faces, some I only just saw last night at the party. Many of those faces look weary and hungover, barely even reacting upon seeing me. I earn a few nods, but in the end most don't really notice me.

I glance over at the crowd of parents and adults, anxiously watching and awaiting the commencement of the Reaping. First I look for my mother, knowing she won't be there. She would likely be very far in the back reading the bible, she doesn't usually desire to watch. Next I attempt to locate Uncle Aldir. Unsurprisingly, I don't see him anywhere. He is either still laying against the building, passed out, or he is attempting to make his way here.

However, what I do notice, is a massive surprise. As I am trying to locate my uncle, I recognize someone that looks very similar to him. It takes a second to register that it isn't him, but it is in fact my father. He actually made an effort to watch? Not to stray away from the view of the stage? This makes me strangely comforted, knowing that someone is there for me. Although whether he is here for me or because he is required to is unknown to me.

The lackluster noise is silenced even more as everyone faces the stage. It seems as if the Reaping is finally beginning. I watch as the Victor's file out on stage, showcasing our undeniable success in the Hunger Games. Although we are fourth in the number of Victor's out of all the Districts, we are first out of the outlying Districts, with ten total Victor's, and seven Living. The first to walk out on stage is Maple Heathen, Victor of the 17th Hunger Games and our oldest living Victor.

The next bunch are all from well before my time, Root Woodstock, Victor of the 27th Hunger Games, Holly Redoak, Victor of the 44th Hunger Games, Larch Sith, Victor of the 47th Hunger Games, and Blight Jordan of the 57th Hunger Games.

Finally, our two most famous, as well as most recent Victor's, make their way onto the stage. Johanna Mason, Victor of the 71st Hunger Games. Her victory was one of the most famous of all time, because nobody suspected her the whole time. She played the Game flawlessly, and acted inconceivably well, so well in fact that she was written off as a Bloodbath. The other tributes should have learnt that District 7 is never a District to underestimate.

Last of all, we have Rowan Terran, Victor of the 77th Hunger Games. The arena he was in was an exceptionally unique one, it set place in a swamp full of toxic material and acidic plants. To make things even more interesting, the Capitol made sure there were a surplus of weapons for all of the tributes to use, and very close to the pedestals, whilst all of the survival supplies were in the Cornucopia. The catch was, all of the weapons were blunt, all the sharp edges of the swords, axes, spears, knives, were all battered and blunt, incapable of cutting through flesh. Rowan became a reckoning force when he was smart enough to utilize the acidic algae, placing the plant on the end of his blunt axe. This made the axe usable, and he was able to take out his competition much easier than they would be able to take him out. He was able to hunt down any tribute he wished, and taking out the Careers early on by throwing a heap of the acidic algae on them as they slept, and dissolving most of their flesh, took out his most difficult competition.

The next person to come on stage is Mayor Willwood. It's his second Reaping since Eldory Pineneedle was relieved of his status as Mayor. The first Reaping Mayor Willwood had to host was only a month into his reign, so obviously, he was quite nervous and unprepared. This year however, he appears much more confident and organized.

 _I do wonder what happened to Eldory Pineneedle, I haven't heard about him since he went into hiding,_ I think curiously.

"Welcome, citizens of District 7, to the Reaping for the 80th Annual Hunger Games!" He announces, beaming heavily. He doesn't earn much of a response, mainly as not many people of District 7 would really approve of a Mayor showing so much enthusiasm for such a savage event. At least Mayor Pineneedle didn't seem to enjoy it, but that could be because he was so intimidated by standing in front of a crowd that hated him.

"Things have gone quite smoothly this afternoon, and I'm sure we are highly anticipating the outcome of today's event! So, without any further ado, allow me to introduce our dashing Escort, Lysawell Cloverton!" He calls out giddily. One thing I am thankful for, is that the Capitol has abolished the necessity to show us that long ass video every year. After the 75th Hunger Games, it was decided that it was unesscary as the Hunger Games aren't so much about enforcing the Capitol's power on us anymore, but rather the Capitol's entertainment. It was determined however, that the video would be played to District's that were showing signs of rebellion, as well as to every District during future Quarter Quells. This means, that normal Reapings are much quicker nowadays.

My attention shifts to Lysawell, as she comes out onto the stage. She smiles politely at the crowd, knowing it wouldn't be the best idea to show excitement at the Reaping. She shows enough to please the Capitol, before focusing her attention on controlling the Reaping.

"Greetings to all of you! I would like to thank you for having me here! It has been a year already since we were last gathered together, but now the time has arrived to select both one young man, and one young woman, to compete for the chance to bring their District all kinds of glory!" Lysawell announces. I almost hum a laugh, noticing that she left out the 'fighting to the death' part.

"In order to not keep those heavily anticipating in the dark, I believe it is time to commence the selection of the tributes. We shall begin with the ladies first of course," she beams, before making her way towards the large bowl full of slips. I don't immediately feel my heart start racing, as it is the girl's selection that is occurring first, however even I can't help but feel nervous as I watch Lysawell dip her arm inside and pluck a single slip of paper from the top.

 _She was quick to choose, most Escorts take ages,_ I think to myself. My eyes follow Lysawell as she makes her way back to the center of the stage. Opening the slip, she reads to herself first, before announcing the name loud and clear into the microphone.

"District 7's female tribute for the 80th Hunger Games is. . . Ivory Griffiths!"

The first thing I hear is a wail, followed by a number of sobs. People glance at one another uncomfortably. That isn't a good sign, or a good first impression. After a few seconds, Ivory makes her way to the front, out of the twelve-year-old section. I'm horrified to see that it was the little blonde girl that I was behind in the line. If her face was drained of color before, she should be clinically dead now. The only color she shows is the redness around her bright blue eyes, that display nothing but panic.

Despite this, she pushes through and forces herself up onto the stage. As she walks towards Lysawell, the blonde Escort reaches out for Ivory to hold her hand. However, before Ivory can reach her, she is interrupted by a shaky and weary voice.

"I-I volunteer for her place," the voice calls out, stopping everyone dead. There is a great deal of murmuring that occurs, most people appearing flabbergasted beyond belief. A volunteer from an outlying District? There hasn't been one of those since Katniss Everdeen from District 12 volunteered to save her sister. Was this perhaps a heroic sister of Ivory?

Lysawell appears to be in the midst of talking to Mayor Willwood, obviously not used to the concept of a District 7 volunteer. In a few moments, Lysawell regains her composure and smiles.

"Why, it looks like we have ourselves a volunteer! The first in decades for District 7! Please dear, do come up," Lysawell urges. As Ivory is escorted down the stairs, people begin to shuffle around in the eighteen-year-old section. It is a moment before a hooded, black cloaked figure emerges from the crowd of people, before turning to the crowd and drawing back her hood. The immediate reaction from the crowd is a series of gasps and people murmuring. I myself am utterly shocked, as I easily recognize the girl.

She has a pair of charming blue almond eyes, with thin pale eyebrows. Her nose is thin and delicate, despite the unnerving dirtiness her face is covered in. Her lips are perfectly proportioned with delicate arches and a distinctive 'v' shape in her upper lip in a beautiful natural pink hue.

Her hair is a golden-honey blonde, with natural waves towards the tips that gives the impression that she has tried to keep it neat. This hasn't prevented the appearance of a the relatively dirty and unkempt length of hair that she possesses'. She has an angular jawline and a wide, but pointed chin that I'm used to seeing high and arrogant. Now she keeps it low as if she were ashamed.

She looks a bit older than she is, seeing as she came out of the eighteen-year-old section, she could pass for mid-twenties. Her body is slimly built, and particularly malnourished, yet she still appears quite graceful. She generally comes across as disheveled and dirty, as I'm sure she hasn't had the opportunity to properly wash in a while.

This is because, the girl is actually Ebony Pineneedle, daughter to former Mayor, Eldory Pineneedle.

* * *

 **Ebony Pineneedle**

 **~18~**

 **District 7**

This is the first time in over a year, that so many eyes have been laid upon me. I forgot how confronting it felt, but that may be due to how powerless I am right now. I have rendered so many of these people speechless, most stare at me blankly, mouth agape. Others cannot help but scowl at me, but that was to be expected. In fact, I figured that I would be dealt a whole lot more hate than this.

Even if they were to be so angered by my presence, I have just volunteered, meaning I am untouchable until I get into the arena. Of course, at that point I'll have nothing to protect me from being killed aside from my own skills and wit, but it'll be twenty three other tributes attempting to do that, not the entirety of a District.

I draw my eyes away from the crowd's gaze, glancing at the floor before I begin to solemnly trudge up to the stage. Most of the Capitol wouldn't know who I am, with how dirty I am I could gain some sympathy points, but then again, that could fool few people. I did just volunteer after all. Why did I volunteer? Well, it was probably my best option. What that shopkeeper shouted at me, really got me thinking. There was no way I could keep living the way I was, with my constant concern being when I would next eat. I am despised by virtually all of the District, all because of my father's actions, so perhaps the little appreciation or in the very least tolerance, that I could gain, I could get through volunteering and saving a young twelve-year-old girl from certain death. Last of all, I lost everything when my father was removed from power, the only chance I ever had of gaining any sort of wealth back, would be from winning the Hunger Games. And if I died, well, how is my life worth living anyways?

Some of those reasons, sound kind of selfish. I'm not saving a little girl from the goodness of my heart, I'm not sacrificing myself so that she lives, I'm doing it to better my reputation, I'm doing it to get back my wealth and fame. No, I'm not perfect, I'm not just a kind-hearted girl, I'm just taking my best shot for success. But. . . nobody else has to know that.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, doing my best to refrain from looking at the crowd. This is when the insults begin to be shouted.

"Whore!"

"Skank!"

"Witch!"

"Slut!"

"Bitch!"

This is more so what I expected the reaction to be when I volunteered. I guess it just had to sink into the crowd. When I was younger, the insults used to make me cry. I got called these things when I was only six or seven, although they weren't to me particularly, they were trying to anger my father. Regardless, I would bawl my eyes out whenever I was alone, until I had no more tears left to shed. As time went on, it wasn't because I had cried away all the tears, but more so I just grew used to the words. They lost meaning, they became too common a phenomenon to upset me in any way.

In fact, some days when nobody said anything of the sorts to me, I would be confused, concerned that there was something wrong. But low and behold, they would always come back not long after.

The climb up the stairs is an all too familiar one, and when I reach the top, I'm almost taken aback by how familiar yet strange it feels. I have so many memories of standing upon this stage, but none of them were positive. This one is certainly not positive, perhaps that is what makes it feel familiar.

I glance ahead, seeing Lysawell examining me. She wears a confused and rather disapproving expression on her face. For a moment, I judge it to be for me, until she speaks up.

"Now that is no way to address your newest Tribute, and a Volunteer in addition. I don't want to have to ask the Peacekeepers to find those of you that are so disrespectful," she scolds the crowd, before smiling sweetly at me.

"Come over here darling, right next to me," she beams at me. I nod my head curtly, before I scurry across to her and stare out ahead, overlooking the crowd.

"Now my lovely girl, what may your name be?" Lysawell asks.

"My name. . . is Ebony Pineneedle," I announce softly into the microphone. Lysawell appears to be given a stroke of recognition.

"Ahhh, do you happen to be the daughter of Eldory Pineneedle?" Lysawell asks. I gulp, before making my face stony, and responding to her question.

"Yes, I am," I reply.

"Oh how interesting! Well, Ebony, why did you decide to volunteer today?" She asks.

"Because Lysawell, it is the best that I can do to pay back my District for the things my father did so unjustly for years," I lie. I don't regret the things my father did, but if I'm to get the citizens to support me at all, I have to show that I am on their side. Will the Capitol care? Perhaps, or perhaps it'll be a naive girl that was brainwashed by the torment and backlash that was dealt to her by her District, that those words are coming from.

"Please, call me Lysa. Now, how confident are you about going into the arena?" Lysa asks.

"Well Lysa, in all honesty I can't judge how well I may do until I've at least seen my competition. But I'll give it my all to make my District proud," I inform her.

"Thanks for sharing Ebony, and on the note of judging your competition, shall we find out who will be accompanying you to the Capitol, and in the arena?" Lysa suggests.

"I suppose so," I reply. Lysa grins at me before turning and making her way over towards the male's bowl. It seems that the crowd has shifted their focus back to Lysa, giving me a break from the spotlight.

 _Thank god for that,_ I think to myself. Lysa reaches the bowl, reaching inside and instead of grabbing one off the top like she did for the girls, she reaches as far inside as she can, before seemingly choosing her slip and taking it back out. She turns again, walking back towards the middle of the stage. Now the crowd looks worried, many of them obviously concerned that they may be chosen. Lysa unfolds the slip, before leaning towards the microphone and announcing the contents of the paper.

"And District 7's Male tribute for the 80th Hunger Games is. . . Masin Hurst."

The name means nothing to me, I've never heard of Masin before. I don't do so much as blink when I hear his name, nor does anyone else it seems. Huh, he must really be insignificant. At least he hasn't shouted out, in either anger or horror. Now that I think about it, that would actually be ideal, it's not like Masin is going to want to ally with me anyways, and the weaker he is, the less of a chance he has of winning.

Eventually, I see people in the sixteen-year-old section begin to move aside in order to make room for Masin. He emerges from the front, and I'm honestly shocked. Masin is the boy that I was watching running down the street earlier, the one that looked incredibly stressed. I let my surprise slip for a moment, albeit unintentionally, before I realize what I have done and mask it again.

Masin has olive skin, although little of it shows as he wears long sleeves and tight pants. He appears to be of a decent height, perhaps 5'11", and is of a slender but healthy figure. On his head rests a bed of thick brown hair, while his face appears boyish and cute with light blue eyes that could pass as grey. He by no means looks weak by any sorts, and I could have hoped that he would look a bit less appealing, but at least he doesn't appear to be some crazy, axe wielding psychopath.

His face is surprisingly difficult to read, seeing as he displayed his concern quite openly before, but I can't blame him for trying to hide how he may be feeling. If anything, he looks quite confused, as if he doesn't believe he is being Reaped. For all I know, he could have an array of mixed feelings going through his head right now.

He makes his way onto the stage, standing stiffly alongside Lysa. She lightly places her hand on his back, perhaps to comfort him in this tragic moment.

"Congratulations Masin, you are District 7's newest male tribute!" Lysa exclaims, attempting to lighten his mood. It's safe to say, she is unsuccessful.

"Th-thanks, I guess," he murmurs.

"Sorry what was that Masin? I didn't quite pick that up," Lysa asks.

"Thanks Lysa, I feel privileged to have been selected," he says louder, being given the chance to correct himself. Lysa beams at him.

"Well isn't that a good spirit to go in with! How confident would you say you are Masin?" Lysa asks.

"I-I have no idea, I guess I'm about as confident as my chances are of winning," he replies.

"So that must be as high as possible, because I know you can win this thing!" Lysa exclaims. I can't help but feel a stab of jealously. She isn't meant to be biased, I hope this isn't her choosing a favorite, if I'm to stand a chance I need both my Escort and my Mentors on my side. Seeing as my Mentors, Johanna and Rowan, may judge me because of my father, my best bet is Lysa, who can talk me up to the Capitol and acquire those sponsors.

"Well, I believe that brings us to the end of another Reaping! Hopefully either Ebony or Masin will be accompanying us on this stage next year!" Lysa calls out, as she makes both Masin and I face each other. He sticks out his hand, which causes his sleeve to come up a bit. He frantically attempts to pull it down to cover his wrists, before looking up at me and smiling awkwardly. That was a bit weird.

Well, he is smiling at me, at least he doesn't seem to loathe me. I reach out and shake his hand, only smiling slightly at him. I don't want to show _too_ much emotion. Next my hand is taken by Lysa, who puts it high up in the air. I turn my head to see that she does the same to Masin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, District 7's tributes for the 80th Hunger Games! Ebony Pineneedle, and Masin Hurst!" She exclaims. The crowd forcefully applauds, most looking at Masin to show their support of him over me. It doesn't matter, I don't need them to approve of me whilst I'm in the arena. It's the Capitol that I need.

Lysa releases us before leading us towards the back of the stage, where we are taken by Peacekeepers.

And so it begins.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Before I say anything, I'll just like to thank both** _TWilkins_ **and** _Cat of Flame_ **, for submitting** _Ebony_ **and** _Masin_ **respectively.**

 **Okay, so, I'm back! Alright, I know it has been a bit over a month since I last updated. If I'm being honest, my free time went almost completely out of the window as soon as school started up again. You guys know if I could have written I would have, I was updating every two weeks at least over my summer break. I have just been so flat out though, getting back into the swing of things wasn't easy. This is my final year of High School, and although this story is very important to me, I'm sure you can all understand that school and real life MUST come first. Now that that's out of the way, hopefully I can go back to quicker updates, so I can be done with the damn Reapings!**

 **So, what did you guys think about Masin and Ebony? Both bring an interesting dynamic to the story, and I would love to hear your predictions and thoughts like usual. They really help with feedback and motivation!**

 **Now, this is long overdue, but seeing as we have gotten over halfway through the Reaping's, I'm going to reveal the rest of the tributes on my profile. I think everyone still waiting has the right to know if their tribute was accepted, and it needs to happen now. In addition, I have made a blog for all of the tributes and escorts!**

 **The blog is:** bloodlineotv . blogspot . com

 **Just remember to remove the spaces!**

 **Thank you so much for your patience, and let's hope I can get District 8's Reaping much sooner. Keep an eye on my profile for any updates, if I am taking a long time to update then the necessary information will be displayed on my profile. See you next time!**


	11. District 8: Xanthe and Deon

**Reaping VIII**

* * *

 _Sentinel : /ˈsɛntɪn(ə)l/_

(sen-tin-el)

a soldier or guard whose job is to stand and keep watch.

 _"the young man stood as a sentinel for his dying mother."_

* * *

 **Deon Kervall**

 **~17~**

 **District 8**

"Deon?" Her voice pierces the seemingly solemn atmosphere that has immersed the streets of District 8. Although it was only a whisper, it is loud enough for me to immediately hear it. Her voice is soft, slightly shaky as if she is cold, if I had to judge I would be able to conclude that she doesn't want to draw attention to herself.

"Deon," her voice repeats again, this time slightly louder. I shake my head, drawing my full attention to her.

"Sorry Rose, I-I was just a little distracted," I explain, trying to sound as sincere as possible. I know for a fact that it can be difficult to talk to Rose sometimes, she hates the idea of someone being sympathetic towards her. Just the wrong tone can put her in a terrible mood.

"Can we please hurry this up, I just want to get home," she says flatly, crossing her arms and glancing down at the ground. I sigh, twisting my mouth sadly.

"I thought you wanted to get a new dress, to wear to the Reaping," I state, not being able to help my confusion.

"I did, but, I just can't be here anymore. It's not like I'll be able to show off my dress anyways," she says bitterly.

"Of course you will, you'll look beautiful," I assure my doubtful sister.

"No I won't. This is just degrading, I'll just look silly with a new dress, people will wonder why we even bothered," she softly cries out.

"Don't think like that, they will respect you," I attempt to make her feel better.

"I highly doubt that," Rose snorts, leaning her cheek against her hand.

"They all just look at me, with pity, some with amusement, and the blank stares, those are the worst," she croaks, beginning to sob. Oh no, she's having one of her breakdowns. I stop walking before leaning down beside her, with an arm around her shoulder to try and calm her down.

"Rose, you are the strongest girl I know. Don't worry about what others think, you don't have to worry about the Reaping, you're not eligible, just relax," I say softly. She sniffs, before glancing at me.

"But you're eligible Deon. What happens if you get Reaped, who will be there for me, for mother?" She chokes. My thoughts are momentarily drawn to my mother, Satin Kervall. The poor woman, has experienced tragedies that no mother or wife should have to experience. These days, she barely utters a word, and for the most part is unresponsive, whilst roaming deep in her memories of our happier times. When she is with us in the present, on the off occasion that is, she is just a sad woman. If I was to be Reaped, my mother would by no means be capable of looking after Rose, and the situation is vice versa.

"I'm not going to be Reaped, you have nothing to worry about," I assure her with a small smile.

"But there is still a chance Deon, and I can't lose you. I've already lost Jole, if you go as well, I have nobody left!" She cries out. I feel a twinge in my chest at the mention of Jole, my older brother. I usually try my utmost best to avoid any thought of Jole, and for the majority of the time since the accident, I've managed to indeed avoid much of a thought. In this circumstance, I have no choice but to address it.

Jole was four years older than me at the time. I was only fourteen, whilst he was 18, and Rose was 20. It had been a horrid day in terms of weather, torrential rains bucketing down all over the District, causing waves of water to flow down the streets and into the drainage system. It has been a three-day long storm, and had occurred only a few days after our second tribute had perished in the Hunger Games. The District was gloomy, and people were working hard to support their families in such cruel weather.

I worked in a separate factory from Rose and Jole at that time, as I was younger. Sometimes I'm thankful that I was, despite the smaller pay, because in the end, not working for that factory, saved my life. The rain was so severe, that it caused the roof to collapse, and the building followed a few seconds later. So many people were injured that day, even more were killed. Jole's body was found under a support beam, he had been crushed and suffocated, with internal bleeding that was irreparable. He would have died slowly, and alone, and wasn't found till after he was deceased.

Jole's death ruined my mother, who still wasn't entirely okay after the death of my father. She hasn't been the same ever since, and has remained detached from the world.

Rose, her life was ruined from that day. Not only did she lose our brother, and pretty much our mother, but she also lost both of her legs. She was found trapped under rubble, barely conscious and in dire pain. Her legs had been shattered, and were barely still attached to her thighs. The only reason Rose survived, was because the owner of the factory had a soft spot for her, and payed for her operation.

The flashbacks of seeing Jole's contorted and bloodied body was traumatic to say the least, so much so that I can't remember much else from that specific day. Do I need to really? It's for the best that I don't remember, I know that for a fact. The sorrow I felt that day, is best to remain undisturbed. Jole, as horrible as it is, must remain only as a memory, one that is so deep in my mind that it doesn't resurface.

"Are you sure that you don't want to find a dress anymore?" I ask once more, attempting to change the subject. Rose pulls the blanket down in an attempt to cover her legless lower half even more, appearing relatively uncomfortable out in public.

"I'm sure of it Deon, please, just take me home," she says quietly, eyes shut tightly. I nod sadly, glancing down at the street where the store would have been. I only wanted to treat her, but if she truly wants to go home, then I suppose I'll honor her wish. I spin her wheelchair around, which is slightly troubling as the wheelchair isn't in the greatest condition. The street isn't that busy at the moment, with most families indoors continuing to get ready for the Reaping. For Rose, that is a good thing as they aren't out here to stare at her.

I roll her forward, trying to quickly go down the street before people begin to come out and upset her. One of my greatest fears, is the idea of Rose getting hurt in any way, be it psychologically, or physically. We make it out of the Main Street shortly after, and soon enough we're on the road that takes us to our small house. I push more carefully now, as the footpath is in nowhere near as good of a condition as the Inner District.

"I'm sorry Deon, I know you really wanted to get this dress for me. It's my fault that I'm such a freak," she spits bitterly. I cannot help but produce a pained expression at her self-inflicted verbal abuse.

"No, Rose don't say that, you're far from it, okay?" I reassure her, squeezing her shoulder softly as we roll up beside our house.

"I am your big sister you know, my word is more valuable than yours," she replies.

"Not in this case Rose. It's not your fault, what happened was tragic, but it was by no means your fault. You are not a freak, you're a survivor!" I say passionately, smiling slightly.

"I don't deserve to be here Deon. I should have died in that decrepit old factory," she whispers shakily. I'm slightly alarmed when I see her gripping the chair rests tightly, cutting off the circulation to her fingers. I stop the wheelchair once again, stopping by a chair which I sit down in. I glance with concern at Rose's blank, drained face, before resting my hand over hers.

"Why would you say that Rose?" I ask softly, my own voice sounding thoroughly saddened by the whole ordeal. Rose shuts her eyes, squeezing out a few tears that run down the shape of her soft rosy cheeks. It's a few moments before she opens her glistening eyes, that find my gaze. She bites her lower lip softly, before taking one deep sigh. Her lip trembles, as she opens her mouth to speak.

"I-I, could have saved him, Deon. . . I could have saved Jole's life," she chokes out, causing the tears to fall harder. I raise my eyebrows in concern, as well as confusion.

"W-what? How?" I ask softly. She doesn't immediately respond, but after a few seconds have passed, it appears that she pushes herself to speak.

"I watched as the roof collapsed. It didn't fall where we were to begin with, it was the other side of the building. But it happened fast. It occurred behind Jole, meaning he couldn't see it in time, so the roof began to collapse even closer to our position. But. . . I was frozen. I tried to yell, I tried to warn him, but I was so scared, that I couldn't bring myself to move," she murmurs. She lets out a small cry, as the memory comes flooding back to her.

"I watched in silence, as the support beam collapsed from the roof. . . and crushed his head. I-I, didn't do anything, why didn't I do anything?!" She screeches out, before breaking down in a fit of remorse. As she covers her face with her hands, I instinctively embrace her in a soft hug, attempting to give her some form of comfort. I allow her to bury her face into the nook of my shoulder, as I slowly rub her back. I don't want her to see that I too, am fighting off the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes.

We spend a few minutes like this, as I wait patiently for her to regain her composure. There is no use in rushing her, as sometimes the best way to get over things is to just let it all out. She is the first to speak, the first to break the silence.

"I'm sorry Deon, you shouldn't have needed to put up with my woes," she says hoarsely. I wipe any remnants of tears from my eyes, before breaking our hug and leaning back.

"Don't be sorry. It's completely fine," I inform her softly. She nods softly, before glancing down and away from my gaze.

"Let's take you home," I suggest, before getting back behind the wheelchair, and rolling her forward. It's only another three minutes before we make it back to our tiny home, with the curtains hiding the inside of the house. We roll forward, until I have to push Rose up the makeshift ramp that I placed over the stairs those three years ago. I hide the fact that I am puffing when we make it up, so that Rose doesn't feel insecure about being in a wheelchair. If I'm being honest, it's because I am completely out of shape.

"Here we are, back home," I manage to choke out.

"Thanks Deon," she mutters, smiling weakly.

"I suppose I better go search for what I'm going to wear now," she states, before rolling her wheels forward and opening the door.

"Rose, wait!" I call out whilst holding my hand out. She stops dead, before turning her head to face me.

"Yes?" She asks.

"I've got something to show you," I inform her, before taking ahold of the handles to her chair, and taking her forward.

"A surprise?" She asks, a hint of excitement evident in her tone. I chuckle a bit to myself.

"Yeah you could say that," I reply. I take her down the small hallway that leads to my room, before fitting her through the door frame.

"Cover your eyes," I instruct. She nods, before raising her open palms to cover her eyes. I silently open my closet, before taking out what I wanted to show her. I raise it in front of her, before telling her to open her eyes. Once she does, her mouth falls in a state that makes her appear gob smacked.

"Deon, when. . ." She trails off, not being able to conjure up a proper sentence. What I hold up, is a silky light blue dress, one made with the expensive scrap materials that I managed to salvage from the factories disposal.

"I've spent a long time on this, mainly trying to practice my skills with weaving and stitching, and then I figured I would make it for you. I intended to give this to you for your birthday, but I think now is an appropriate time," I inform her, not being able to hide my beaming smile. Her eyes absorb the dress, sparkling with awe.

"I-It's. . . beautiful Deon," she squeaks, truly astounded.

"Well you've got something to wear now," I grin, hanging it up from the door knob. She opens her arms, signifying she wants to hug me. I bend down, embracing her tightly with a much happier atmosphere this time.

"Thank you, so much," she whispers. I pat her back softly, as I smile happily.

"Don't mention it."

* * *

 _Conflicted : /kənˈflɪkt/_

(con-flick-ted)

having or showing confused and mutually inconsistent feelings.

 _"he remains a little conflicted about Marlene"_

* * *

 **Xanthe "X" Rayadillo**

 **~17~**

 **District 8**

Red. So much red. Red blood that spills onto the floor, that splutters out of the ugly gash that has been ruptured by that abnormally serrated blade. Red blood against the increasingly pale skin of the young boy, who rests against the cave wall with groggy eyes and streaming tears.

It's an ugly sight, confronting for many, but just another injury to me. The difference is, this was broadcasted to all of Panem last year. This poor boy, couldn't die peacefully, but rather died as entertainment. This was our Male tribute last year, the cute little thirteen-year-old that had a knack for rope tying and trapping.

He had been getting by alright, staying relatively far from the other tributes and Careers, capturing his food and learning how to butcher and cook it up himself. For a young tribute whose only skill was knot tying, he has made an impressive show for the Capitol. Unfortunately, it hadn't been bloody enough for them.

My eyes raise to the girl that kneels beside him, a look of horror etched onto her face. His District partner, and our other tribute. She had been the one that had sent a spear flying at him. The poor girl had no idea it was her District partner, she had just heard noise coming from in the bushes. She acted before thinking, thrusting the spear through the air. The boy barley moved out of the way, but instead of impaling him, the spear cut through his flesh.

He had been able to direct the girl to his base, as she had frantically tried to stifle the blood. That's how we have got to here. At this point, the girl has given up, not knowing how to save him. His breathing has become shallow, whilst all the color in his skin has been transformed into a paper white tone.

I didn't have to watch this to remember it, it's already embedded vividly in my mind. In addition, I hate to reminisce on the negatives of life, it's never a pleasant thing to do. However, ever since I first watched this last year, it has had a significant impact on my life. From the very start, I had cared for this boy. He was an underdog, seemingly invisible, causing very few to realize just how clever he really was. I wanted him to go far, I wanted him to win, so when this happened, it was like watching a train wreck.

I sigh, as I hear the boy utter his final words to the girl, his forgiveness for what she had done. The girl had cried all her tears away anyways, at this point, all she could do was watch him drift away blankly. His breathing slows to an all-time low, before his eyes flutter shut and he lets out his final breath. A moment later, his cannon booms.

I watch as the girl doesn't do so much as flinch, it's as if all her life has drained from her eyes. Next, she takes his pack off of his back, and begins to drag his body outside, leaving a trail of blood. I wince as I know what happens next, it isn't a pretty sight. The girl dumps the boy's body outside, so that the hovercraft can pick up the body, before looking up due to a voice.

"Well, well, well, look what we've stumbled upon," a snarky voice booms. The girl turns in horror, to see Ryus Griftyte of District 2, as well as some of the remaining Careers. I glance away as I hear the scream, which is cut off by the sickening sound of her decapitation.

"Weak," Ryus mutters, followed by her cannon. That's when I turn off the TV. I sigh heavily, leaning back against the soft sofa. That was a horrid day for District 8. First one of our tributes accidentally kills the other, and then the remaining one gets slaughtered by Ryus. Not our greatest performance.

The real reason I watch this scene from the 79th Hunger Games, is because I always think to myself 'what would I have done in that situation?'. I think of all the ways, I could have saved that innocent boy's life, every bit of medical attention that he needed, anything that would have healed him. Perhaps if she had managed to save him, they would have stayed in that cave and not been found by the Careers.

I suppose it is a strange thing to ponder, to constantly come back to this. However, sometimes I cannot help but genuinely wonder how things could have changed in each Hunger Games I watch, if I was there to help tend to the wounds of the more innocent tributes.

My father, Nader Rayadillo, is one of the few surgeons that District 8 has. In a sense, he has made me follow in his footsteps to become a surgeon, despite any aspirations I may have had. I don't really mind though, in many ways it has helped me with multiple situations. I'm thought of as smart, and highly looked up to because of my found ability to save people's lives.

I remember my first ever operation, the most confronting one of all. It had been about three years ago, during the worst weather I have ever experienced. One of the major factories had collapsed, and a young woman of about twenty was brought in. I had only been there that day because there were many sick people from the weather, and my father couldn't tend to all of them. He saw that as an ample opportunity to gain experience. So, I did, especially when that girl was rolled in on a stretcher.

Her legs were completely contorted, crushed, and disturbingly so. I remember turning away as soon as I saw them, absolutely shocked by what I had seen. I had to get ahold of myself quickly, because if she didn't receive immediate attention, she simply would have died. She was already passed out from the pain, so there was no need to use anesthesia.

The rest of it went by like a blur, yet somehow, I was able to take away so much from that event. It was gruesome, that's for sure, but in a sense, it helped to desensitize me from real life situations similar to that. If only I was there to help that poor boy, that event could have turned out drastically different.

"Xanthe, you in there?" I hear a light voice emitted from outside of the study. I glance at the door, before clearing my throat.

"Yeah. . . I'm in here," I respond. For a few moments, what follows is silence, aside from the light pattering of rain that has just begun to fall.

"Can I come in?" The voice asks hesitantly.

"Of course," I reply, rather taken aback. The door creaks open slowly, before my mother, Niav Rayadillo, peeks around the wooden object.

"Is everything alright?" I ask, sounding slightly concerned. She lowers her head for a second, before making eye contact.

"Uh, yeah. . . everything is fine. I'm just notifying you that. . . Huxley, is on the phone, he's asking to speak to you," my mother informs me. I can't help but let my jaw drop in surprise, as my face relaxes. Huxley? He actually risked calling here? I leap to my feet in an instant, before brushing past my mother and out into the hall. Seeing as we are a family of surgeons, we are wealthy for a District 8 family. That's why we have access to things like telephones, albeit fairly primitive technology. However, we do need it as sometimes situations are desperate, and the only way to notify us is through the phone.

As I'm walking towards the phone, I'm suddenly quite nervous. Huxley isn't in trouble, is he? He isn't in need of surgery, and is calling for me because he doesn't want to speak to my father? Actually, it's more so that my father wants nothing to do with Huxley.

See, once our family wasn't so divided. We used to be a happy, caring family, just like most. Huxley is my older brother, and he was meant to follow in my father's path, to become a surgeon. However, that's not what Huxley wanted to do. In fact, he wasn't interested in that at all, he had ambitions for his own designer clothing, and creating a thriving empire off of his own brand of clothing. I glance down at the shirt I currently wear, a black top made from intricate material that would be worth a fortune to anyone from a traditional District. The company logo over my left breast however, is the reason I can afford it. The company is named 'Huxley', how very creative, and is run by my dear brother Huxley.

This isn't the reason that my father has basically disowned Huxley however. The true reason, my father found out that Huxley is gay. The moment Huxley informed my father, the argument began. It resulted in Huxley being kicked out of my homophobic father's life, to him it was a black blotch on his own legacy. I tried so hard, to make my father see some sense, to make him realize he was kicking out his own son from his life. But he was too blinded by his opinions, and promptly informed me that Huxley was no son of his.

I am now the only link that Huxley has to our family nowadays. He no longer possesses the Rayadillo surname, and even found himself a boyfriend that he has taken the last name of. Funnily enough, it is Mayor Twine's openly homosexual son, Horace Twine. Horace was how Huxley was able to get a jump-start to his company, and today the pair are quite successful.

I grab the phone, before raising it shakily to my ear.

"Huxley?" I ask softly.

 _"Hey X!"_ Huxley replies, sounding rather energetic. I would be relieved, if it weren't for how angry I am.

"Huxley! You scared the fucking life out of me! Why are you calling the phone we use for emergencies?!" I cry at him.

 _"Relax little sis, I had no way of seeing you in person since I can't come to the house, so this was the only other option,"_ he informs me with a chuckle. I sigh, shaking my head in exasperation.

"I'm not going to be able to talk for long Huxley, I'm heading off for the Town Square soon," I inform him.

 _"Well, that's one of the two things I needed to tell you!"_ He replies. I raise my eyebrow in questioning.

"What's that?" I ask.

 _"Horace has invited me to join him on the stage! His dear father is close to retirement so he is starting to learn how to run the District. Imagine the look on our own father's face when he sees me up there,"_ Huxley says smugly.

"Maybe it'll knock some sense into him," I mutter bitterly.

 _"I think we both know that won't be happening, ever,"_ Huxley comments, a bit softer than before.

"Well good for you Hux, I'm proud of you," I beam, earning a chuckle in response.

 _"Thank you dear. The other thing I wanted to say was a simple 'good luck' , as is customary for any person with a heart,"_ he proclaims.

"Thanks Huxley, I'm sure your kind words will save my life," I snort.

 _"Now before I go, why don't you come around to the Mayor's Mansion after the Reaping. We will have a celebratory lunch, and catch up on a few things. Horace knows how to make a killer pumpkin pie, one that the Avox's have no idea how to perfect!"_ He gushes. I grin in amusement, closing my eyes as I picture myself sitting happily across from my brother, at a pristine table with a bounty of food on top. I giggle a bit when I picture Horace stepping up to the table, with an apron and mittens that hold a delectable pumpkin pie.

"That would be nice!" I reply.

 _"Well see you after the Reaping beautiful, good luck!"_ he exclaims.

"Bye!" I respond, before placing down the phone.

"You sounded awfully pleasant while speaking on the _emergency_ phone, who were you speaking to?" A deep voice asks from behind me. I spin around, facing my father who appears quite stern.

"I was speaking to your son, Huxley," I reply with a sneer. I do love my father, but when the subject turns to Huxley, I will fiercely protect him. My father glares at me disapprovingly, before sighing.

"I have no son," he responds.

"You sure as hell do, I don't care what you say," I spit.

"Xanthe, I don't want you speaking to that man anymore," he demands.

"If you think that's happening, then you must be insane. I'm seeing Huxley after the Reaping, and there is nothing you can do to stop me," I say stubbornly, before storming off.

I don't care what he says, if he thinks that he will forever cut me off from my own brother, then he may as well cut me off too.

* * *

 **Deon Kervall**

 **~17~**

 **District 8**

"Can I look now?" I ask, my eyes tightly shut.

"I think I'm done, how do I look?" Rose asks hesitantly. I open my eyes, finding her shyly looking down, and wearing the dress I had made her. I can't help but smile proudly at my own handiwork, before nodding in approval of how it looks.

"You look great!" I exclaim.

"You really think so?" She asks, not sounding fully convinced.

"Of course, Rose, you look beautiful in your dress. People will be looking at you for all the right reasons," I grin. She chuckles softly, before rolling her wheelchair forwards.

"I think we should probably go now," she suggests.

"There isn't a rush, we can take our time to get there," I smile, before getting behind her chair and gripping the handles.

"Wait!" She cries out, stopping me dead in my tracks.

"I-I'll do it, I'll move myself, if that's okay with you," Rose glances at me. My eyes widen in surprise, before I gesture for her to roll forward.

"Ladies first," I reply, which causes Rose to leave the room. I follow her down the hallway, only coming to a stop in the living room. We both glance over at our mother, sitting in the chair that Jole always used to sit in. She gazes blankly out of the window, a lowly blanket covering her wiry legs. My eyes lower to see the arms of the chair, and the scratch marks that my mother has made with her rather unappealing nails.

"We're heading off to the Reaping mom, we will see you when we get home," I call out to her. She doesn't do so much as blink, although I think I detect a low mumble that she produces.

"Let's go," Rose nudges me, before opening the door and rolling down the ramp. I sigh, before glancing away from my motionless mother and following in pursuit of Rose.

"It must be great to not have to be worried about being Reaped," I speak up, as I reach Rose.

"Yeah, well it is in a sense. The thing is, once you stop worrying about yourself being picked every year, you start having to watch poor and helpless children get shipped off to their deaths. It takes its toll, trust me," she says softly.

"Hmm, I never thought about it like that," I mutter.

"It's best to not think about it at all, sometimes that's the only way to get through the Reaping," she explains.

"Not only that, when you're not eligible anymore, you won't have to worry about anyone you love being Reaped. I have to endure the Reaping every year, with the risk that you may be the next one Reaped," Rose sighs. I twist my mouth in sympathy, acknowledging how difficult it must be for Rose. The rest of the walk goes by relatively quickly. We talk about happier times, when our whole family was one. We talk about the last time District 8 brought home a Victor, and the celebrations that ensued. Although we were both young, I remember it vividly, I had never been so proud to have been from District 8. That was twelve years ago now, time really has passed.

I can't help but notice how much Rose has lightened up, it's as if she has tuned out all of the people we are passing, any stares she receives she doesn't even acknowledge. Perhaps it was the dress that provided her with confidence.

"I can help you with getting into the crowd if you want," I offer, as we reach the Town Square. She glances at the congregated and busy crowd, before frowning with distaste.

"That would be great thanks," she accepts. I guide her chair through the small gaps in the crowd, telling people to move if they are in the way. Most people see her chair and move anyways, not wanting to get run over by it. Eventually we make it to the front, where she has a clear view of the stage. Whichever tributes are selected, they will be walking right past Rose.

"Thanks Deon," she smiles, before I lean down and hug her.

"I'll fetch you after the Reaping, wish me luck," I grin, as I let her go. Turning on my heel, I make my way towards the line of eligible children.

 _And so it begins,_ I think bitterly. The wait is about five minutes long, until the boy in front of me is called forward. I'm readying myself to go forward, before I hear sobbing coming from behind me. I glance to where my back faces, before spotting a miserable little girl, undoubtedly a twelve-year-old.

"Is it your first year?" I ask softly, trying to strike up a conversation to distract her from the gritty reality. She sniffs, before glancing up at me with red glistening eyes.

"Yes," she practically whispers.

"Don't think too much about it, you'll be fine. As long as you show your strong and confident, nothing will be able to hurt you," I assure her. She nods her head in acknowledgment, before choking out a brief "okay".

"Hey fatass, you're up," The Peacekeeper grunts, before shoving me forwards. I flash him a toxic look in response.

"Wow, taking shots at my weight, how hurtful," I sneer at him, before trudging up to the table.

"Finger please," the woman instructs. I hold out my index finger, which she attempts to slide into the device. After a struggle, she finally manages to shove it in, resulting in my finger being pricked.

 _Hmm, perhaps I could lose a few pounds,_ I think, starting to agree with the Peacekeeper.

"Alright Deon, just place your finger print in this box and move along. The Reaping is beginning soon," she informs me. I press my bloody finger on the paper, before making my way to the seventeen-year-old section. When I reach the area, I don't say a word to anyone, nor does anyone to me. I used to get bullied for my weight quite a bit, but that was before I matured. Now any comments are met with aggression, and I almost always win. So, until the Reaping starts, I am surrounded by silence.

Eventually, the Reaping does in fact begin. The already quiet Town Square becomes void of sound, as the Victor's file out onto the stage. The first to come out is Cecelia Sanchez, Victor of the 59th Hunger Games. I wasn't around for her Games, and I haven't gone out of my way to watch it, but from what I've heard she won as a fluke. She evaded, survived, and the only kill she earned was when she covered the small blunt knife she had in Nightlock Juice, and managed to stab the other remaining tribute.

The next person to come out on stage is our only other living Victor. This was the Victor that I did get to experience, at the young age of five. Satin Harner, Victor of the 68th Hunger Games. Her games I have actually watched, and it was a lot more thrilling than what I suspect Cecelia's to have been. Satin wasn't expected to go very far, but she was very pretty. Capitol sponsors did help her to an extent, and eventually, it gave her exactly what she needed. It was something that nobody had ever seen before, Cecelia had sent her wool and sharp knitting needles. It just so happens that it was the year they played in a frozen tundra, and the year that Titus the crazy cannibal from District 6 was in the Games.

Satin was able to knit warmer clothes with the wool strands, and even better she was able to use the incredibly sharp needles as her weapon. I have never seen someone so skilled with knitting needles, but she was so deadly with them that she could throw them like a dart and kill anyone. Her only major competition was Titus and the three remaining Careers, but once Titus was killed in an avalanche, she gained quite a bit of confidence. A few days later, she actually won, and we had a second living Victor.

Once Cecelia and Satin take their seats, my eyes follow Mayor Twine as he shambles onto the stage. He must be on his last legs as Mayor, but I can see that's evident with his son Horace Twine following him onto the stage, appearing quite observant. The person that walks beside Horace, is someone I don't recognize immediately, a seemingly handsome young man, with bleached white hair and darker eyebrows. His physique is on the slender side, and he is tall with designer clothing from Huxley, the company that has taken both our District and the Capitol by storm. Then it dawns on me, it's Huxley Twine, the CEO of the company, and from what I believe he is also the boyfriend and soon to be husband of Horace.

No wonder he is on the stage, I suppose he is there to support Horace as he learns how to run the Reaping. Both Horace and Huxley take up their seats beside Cecelia and Satin, whilst Mayor Twine stands behind the microphone. He takes a deep breath, before beginning.

"Good afternoon my dear citizens of District 8. Here we are once again, another year and another Reaping," he croaks. I almost cringe at his voice, it truly is ghastly, no wonder he is retiring.

"This may be known to some of you, but if it isn't then I am announcing it now. This will be my final Reaping as Mayor," he announces, ensuing a small smattering of murmurs.

"It is my great pleasure to announce that my dear son Horace, will be taking up my position as of next year," he informs us, motioning towards his son who sits with a smile on his face, waving politely at the crowd who stares his way.

"Now, it has been an honor to serve you as your Mayor for all of these Reaping's. I thank you for your tolerance, and hope to see a bright future. If we could please give a warm welcome, to our lovely Escort, Libra Titlepen." Mayor Twine backs away from the microphone as a woman walks onto the stage with an award-winning smile and a slow wave. The glances she is making at the cameras suggests she is definitely playing it up for the Capitol.

"Hello District 8! It's great to be back, and we are in for an exciting time these next few weeks! I would like to acknowledge Mayor Twine's service to District 8, and thank him for the effort and commitment he has given! Now, I think we all know what time it is, let's start with the girls!" Libra gushes, before making her way over to the girl's bowl. The crowd holds their breath, as she dips her hand inside and latches onto a slip of paper deep inside the bowl. She doesn't open it until she reaches the microphone again, and when she does, her reaction is quite unusual.

When the slip is unfolded, she takes a glance at the name on the page, before humming her confusion.

"Well, this is an interesting name. Z-zaynth. . . Zahnth. . . Rayadillo!"

My blood instantly curdles at the announcement of that name, as many other people whisper to each other in concern. Xanthe Rayadillo, is one of the only surgeons our District has, and is obviously a valuable member of our District. But what shakes me the most, is the fact that it was her, that helped to save Rose when her accident happened. For that, I've been eternally thankful for Xanthe, and now she is being shipped off to her death.

I watch in horror as the crowd parts ways, and then I can see Xanthe at the front. She has a healthy body, that's appears to have matured rather well. Her body suggests she has had a good upbringing, understandable since she is in fact a surgeon, and her father is as well. Her skin is normally fair, although it appears slightly tanned as of now, whilst her hair is a brown so dark it appears black. It falls in waves just below her shoulders, and makes her steely grey blue eyes stand out effectively against her dark eyelashes, from what I presume to be mascara. Overall, she is quite pretty, which is already an advantage.

She walks slowly, eyes shining with blankness. The way she walks, leads me to think she is feeling dismayed and overwhelmed by the whole thing. I feel a pang of sympathy for her, as I watch her walk to her likely death.

* * *

 **Xanthe "X" Rayadillo**

 **~17~**

 **District 8**

This can't be happening. Surely this isn't reality right now, it has to be a cruel practical joke, or some mistake made by Libra. That couldn't have been my name that she called out over the microphone, she didn't even pronounce it correctly! However, no matter how hard I try and see a reasonable explanation, the only thing that comes to mind, is that I have just been Reaped for the 80th Hunger Games.

The walk feels slow, as if it could last for a year. Every step I take feels shaky, no matter how hard I attempt to make it look like I have it all together. All these eyes bore into me, and for all the wrong reasons. Just as I am about to reach the stairs leading up to the stage, I catch a glimpse of a girl. She sits in a wheelchair, a look of horror upon her face. Despite my dismay, I am still able to feel a faint sliver of recognition. The girl we saved a few years ago, who had to have her legs amputated because of the collapse of the factory roof.

It had been one of my first few surgeries, and it was one of the most stressful. This girl was on the verge of dying, due to blood loss and body trauma. How I managed to save her, to this day I still have no idea, and just like earlier this day, these memories of this girl all come flooding back. Unfortunately, this is how I'm replayed for it by life, getting selected for imminent death, so someone else doesn't have to die.

I don't make eye contact with the girl, I don't want her to feel sympathy for me, if someone such as her who has gone through unbearable hardships feels pity for me, then there is no doubt I'm in strife. I need to look strong, not just for me, but for others that watch me. I can't let down my District.

Perhaps it isn't all so bad. Maybe this is my opportunity to do some good in the arena, to show the Capitol that no matter what they put us through, we can still retain the humanity that any basic human naturally obtains. I could save someone's life in this arena, even if it's at the expense of my own. If I can avoid having to be the one doing the killing, then perhaps I can stick to my morals, and not harm another human.

But in reality, who am I kidding? I'm only saying this to try and trick my mind into a false sense of security, to reassure myself that I'll be okay. My odds of surviving are incredibly slim, and achieving that without getting blood on my hands is near impossible. I can only recall a few instances where the winner didn't have to kill a single person. One of which was Annie Cresta of District 4, during the 70th Hunger Games. Despite her Career District status, she was so innocent and pure as a person, and when she watched her District partner get decapitated right in front of her, she snapped.

The trauma was too much for her, and she couldn't bring herself to function the rest of the Games. The only reason she won, was because a dam in the arena broke, flooding the entirety of it. Being the only one that could swim, Annie was the only one that didn't drown.

That is a best-case scenario, I don't really want to experience either unfortunate crossroad. But right now, I need to focus on my strategy, there is no point in worrying about the future now. I clear my head, before rising up the stairs confidently, yet not too eagerly. The last thing I want to do is appear to be anticipated for the Games.

"Ooh what a pretty young girl we have," Libra comments admirably. I allow the corners of my mouth to curl up in a small smile, however I cannot bring myself to feel happy at her comments.

"So my dear, how excited are you to be competing in the Hunger Games this year!?" Libra gushes.

"I'm honestly, too surprised to feel anything else," I reply honestly. I turn my head slightly, stealing a glance of Huxley. He watches me in utmost horror, his mouth agape and tears flooding his eyes. Horace grips his hand tightly, whispering something likely to be reassuring. He knows who I am, and what relation I have with Huxley. I feel a small tear escape from my eye, as I make eye contact with him. Is this the last time I'm ever seeing Huxley?

"My dear are you okay?" Libra asks, lightly rubbing my shoulder in a comforting manner.

"Yeah, I'm just getting caught up in the moment, that's all," I inform her, bringing my attention back towards the crowd.

"That's perfectly understandable, just wait until you see the Capitol!" Libra exclaims with a grin. I smile back up at her, trying to shove any negative thoughts from my mind.

"I look forward to it," I respond.

"Well that's fantastic! Now, I think it's time to find out who shall be joining our newest tribute from District 8!" Libra cries out. I watch her as she makes her way over towards the male bowl, the excitement and giddiness evident on her face. The way she plucks a name out is swift, like a child swiping candy from a store and escaping before you can even blink. Before I know it, she's back in front of the microphone, unfolding the slip and preparing to ruin another person's life.

"District 8's other tribute this year is. . . Deon Kervall!"

At first, I'm rather confused. For some reason, I vaguely recognize the name of Kervall, yet I cannot quite make out who that name belongs to. It would only be a moment before I find out anyways, so I don't strain my mind in order to do so. However, I am able to work it out before Deon even makes it into plain sight.

Glancing down at the front of the onlooking crowd, my eyes once again spot the poor girl in the wheelchair. Her face is even more pale than before, accompanied with the look of utmost horror and disbelief. The way she looks, is incredibly similar to Huxley after I was Reaped. That's when it occurs to me, her name is Rose Kervall, and her younger brother, the one that never left the room whilst she went through her surgery, the one that begged me to save her, is Deon Kervall.

My blood runs cold, and my heart drops with despair. How could fate prove to be so cruel to the Kervall family? This poor girl had lost everything, and now she could be losing her brother? It takes a lot not to break down for these innocent people, that have been dragged through Hell.

My eyes are drawn to an opening in the seventeen-year-old section, where I manage to see Deon waddle through. Deon has a widely built body, from what I believe to be conjoining factors of muscle and fat. He has short black hair, that appears to curl slightly with growth, and has accumulated a thick consistence to it. His eyes, both fearful and collected, are a dark brown that can be mistaken for black, perhaps due to his darker hair. His nose is stubby, and with his beady eyes this gives him a sort of piggish appearance. Last of all, his skin is incredibly pale, almost as white as snow, the type you would expect to receive a sun burn even on a cloudy day.

However, as I said, Deon appears strangely collected, calm as of nothing has happened. His eyes do show slight fear, but more so a fear that has been resonated when witnessing his crippled sister. The moment his eyes meet hers, is the moment he appears vulnerable, that is of course until he forces himself to turn away from her glassy gaze.

He lumbers up the stairs while lowering his gaze, refusing to look any of the cameras dead on. All eyes are on Deon, yet he refrains from meeting anyone's gaze, until he looks up at me. We lock eye contact, and I feel my expression slip into that of sympathy. Deon' however, doesn't budge. He looks at me the same way he looks at everything, blankly.

"Aren't we in for a treat! Look at how strong Deon looks!" Libra breaks the silence, motioning towards Deon as he comes at a stop next to her.

"Congratulations Deon, you've become District 8's newest tribute!" Libra grins. I'm taken by surprise when Deon allows a disappointed sigh to release from his worm shaped lips.

"I wish I could bring myself to be as excited as you are Libra," he replies back, voice monotone. Libra obviously didn't expect this answer, because for a moment she appears at a loss for words. After a couple of stammers, Libra appears to come to her senses.

"W-well, let's give it a bit of time, shall we? You're about to be blown away by these next few days!" She exclaims.

"Perhaps we will all be blown up as well," Deon mutters, only loud enough for myself to hear it as Libra has become distracted.

"My dear lovelies of District 8! This brings us to the conclusion of yet another Reaping, with our two lovely tributes chosen!" She calls out, referring to both Deon and I. I feel a light push on my shoulder, and I realize it's Libra trying to get me to shake Deon's hand. I turn to Deon, who does the same to me, and the pair of us simultaneously reach out our hands. I grab Deon's hand, noticing how pudgy and sweaty it feels. I'm surprised when I feel him lightly squeeze my hand, in what feels to be a reassuring way. I look up at him, my eyes meeting his.

"Good luck Xanthe," he says softly, before releasing my hand.

 _Does he remember me?_

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you, District 8's tributes for the 80th Hunger Games! Xanthe Rayadillo, and Deon Kervall!" Libra exclaims, raising both our arms in the air. Hmm, I suppose she learnt how to properly announce my name after Deon said it. The crowd provides a lackluster applause, many faces looking up at us solemnly. They know we aren't coming back.

My eyes watch them until I am whisked away by Peacekeepers, leading me towards the Justice Building.

"Let me go! Let me walk with her, she's my _sister_!" I hear a voice crying out angrily. I look over to my left, spotting Huxley trying to get past two Peacekeepers. Our eyes meet, as he stares helplessly at me. How I wish, to be beside him right now.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **This is too long overdue. I highly underestimated how flexible my time would be in this final year, and unfortunately, it's really taking its toll. The other day, I fell asleep at 6pm, and didn't wake up until 7am the next day. That's how little sleep I've had, all because of school. I apologize so much for the long wait, and there is truly no justifying this long without updating. I hope that I don't take this long again, and will keep a constant update on my profile. I finished this chapter a few days ago, yet I've still been too busy to upload it. The work should be slowing down soon, so hopefully I can get some more of the story done.**

 **Enough of my excuses, now that I have returned and uploaded another profound Reaping chapter, what are your thoughts? I do believe the updates will pick up once I have concluded the Reaping's, they will always be the most grueling part. But I won't digress, I would love to read what everyone's opinions on Xanthe and Deon are.**

 **For anyone curious, Xanthe is pronounced as 'Zanthee', I thought I would include Libra struggling to pronounce Xanthe's name correctly.**

 **That's all I have to say for now. I have some awesome things planned for this story, and I can't wait to write them. District 9 is up next, and I will do my best to get it out quickly. Thanks for waiting so patiently, and see you next time!**


	12. District 9: Gingko and Amaranth

**Reaping IX**

* * *

 _Virtuoso : /ˌvəːtʃʊˈəʊsəʊ,ˌvəːtʃʊˈəʊzəʊ/_

(ver-tew-oss-oh)

a person highly skilled in music or another artistic pursuit

" _a celebrated clarinet virtuoso"_

* * *

 **Gingko Lyat**

 **~14~**

 **District 9**

I look up at the bright yellow sky, as I casually wipe the beading sweat away from my forehead. The sun is hot today, the beating heat relentless in its assault on the Earth, quite typical for a traditional District 9 day. The sun is so bright that it's light seems to reflect off of the ground, causing the sky to have a yellowish tinge as opposed to its bright blue nature. It gives the illusion of a muggy day, with a blisteringly warm blanket of air that covers the atmosphere.

There isn't too much shade in the town of District 9, and there aren't too many huge buildings that can block out the light, so I have to make do with what I can. I am used to the heat however, most born in District 9 are just made to be heat resistant, it's the cold that we can't handle.

My backside rests against the wooden fence, that surrounds the entirety of the Town Square. I look upon the setting in observation, feeling the atmosphere of this day. There are people setting up the stage, as well as organizing entrance points and a variety of other things. Young children that are accompanied by their parents look on fearfully, as the Reaping is set up before our very eyes. If I had to describe the atmosphere, the one thing I could describe it as, is tense. Tensions are high, as people warily pass the Town Square as if it had some contagious disease.

I don't blame them. District 9 aren't usually that successful in the Hunger Games. We don't often win, and in fact, we don't often make it past the Bloodbath, yet alone the halfway point. We prove to serve as cannon fodder, casualties for entertainment, with the extremely rare occurrence of a Victory.

This is why Reaping Day is sometimes, my most successful day! With such tense spirits in the air, the entertainment I can provide tends to lighten people up a bit, and make them a little more relaxed. Sure, there are the people that cannot calm themselves no matter what, but most tend to feel relieved at the uplifting performance I tend to bring.

I can't help but smile a little, feeling the corners of my mouth curl up with my own self-glorification. I cannot deny that it is gratifying to help others feel a little better, it makes me feel as if I have a purpose. Although it's not the real reason as to why I began to do this in the first place, it's still one of the bonuses that I get to experience. Eventually, I conclude that it's time to begin, whilst I still have time and the Town Square isn't too packed.

I lay out the case in front of me, opening the clips and lifting the lid off. I caress the smooth polished wood, before running my finger nail over the metallic strings. I pluck a few of them, hearing the sounds that emit as a result. Closing my eyes, I create a subtle tune that only those close enough can hear.

Once again, I open my eyes and rest my gaze upon my guitar. It took my life savings to purchase this guitar. I had always been fascinated by it when I had passed it in a shop window. The colors, the sleek wood design, the hole in the center would always bore into my mind, begging me to buy it. I had only enough to make up half of the price, from money that I had made from petty tasks at a younger age. Eventually, I relented and found a job in the wheat fields, and after three years of saving a dollar or two from every pay check, I had enough money.

The first thing I did, was sprint across the district until I arrived at the store. Before my eyes, all the money that I had ever saved for myself, was removed and replaced with the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The very guitar I had admired for three years, was in my hands as my very own.

It took me a further few years to learn how to play it properly. A local busker that I had befriended, was the person that helped teach me the basics. Initially, I had to pay him for every lesson, but that was until he reconnected with his long lost daughter. That daughter happened to be our most recent Victor, Ryess Cyth. He no longer needed money, and taught me for free.

That brings me to now, my guitar in my hand, rested up against my body, ready to be strummed. I take a deep breath, before releasing a soft surge of my voice. I follow this up with plucking a few strings, creating the soothing, almost angelic blend of vocals and acoustic guitar. A few people instantly turn their heads, showing an inept interest of what I have to perform. I have often been told that I have an incredibly soothing voice, one that can be soft, and instantly become powerful. If that is indeed true, it proves to be working, as people begin making their way over appearing enticed by the music. I begin to hear the clinking of coins as they are dropped onto my guitar case, one by one.

I continue busking for around half an hour, and as the crowd begins to become bigger and bigger, so does the pile of money. The further I get into my performance, the more passionate I become, and the deeper I get into my music riddled mind. Before too long, it becomes not about the need for money, but the connection I develop with my music, the desire to express my emotions through the notes of the guitar, and the tones of the lyrics that I sing.

It comes to the tipping point, where I play my last song. It is a special one, a song that my mother always used to sing to me when I was a young child. The lyrics come naturally, not much thought is put into them as it becomes an instinct to say the words. They blend in to form the song, and eventually, I have completely delved into the true emotion and passion this song brings out in me. A song about love, resilience, perseverance, the true spirits of District 9.

When I strum the last note, the small crowd erupts into applause. I open my eyes to see the case filled with coins, and as well as a few notes. Parents are pointing me out to their kids, who have all seemed to stop crying after becoming intrigued by the music. I smile softly, feeling enthralled at how I've managed to lighten up these young children.

I take one last bow, before closing the case and strapping it to my back. To come from such a lowly music career to begin with, I can't deny that I have managed to make some commendable progress with my abilities. More and more people are paying attention to me when I busk, perhaps one day I'll be noticed by someone from the Capitol.

Carrying my guitar carefully in my hands, I take a shortcut through a series of alleyways, before I begin to get closer to the housing area of the District. I pass the nicer houses, the ones that are owned by officials, Peacekeepers, and wealthy people in general, before I start to arrive in the more decrepit part of the District. Rundown houses, small farmlands, all close by to the wheat fields where the population from this part predominantly works, including myself.

My house isn't too bad, it isn't anything to be proud of, or boast about, but it functions well enough, and since it holds very few people in it, there's no need for more room. However, when I enter the small building I call home, it proves to be empty. I glance around the kitchen, and the living room, the two places my mother tend to occupy the most frequently. There is also no sign of my mentally challenged older brother Axyl, who is never beneath making a ruckus. It leads me to assume that both have likely left for the Town Square, perhaps my mother wasn't convinced that I would return home before the Reaping began.

As opposed to how I was feeling before, I feel a little disheartened. I was going to surprise her with the earnings I had made from busking today, but I suppose that would have to wait until I return home. I haul the guitar case onto the wooden table, unlatching the lid and staring down at the money. I lightly place my guitar beside the case, before collecting the money and counting it.

It turns out that I have accumulated roughly $300, mostly made from coins. That'll hold us over for at least two months, and on top of my work in the fields, we could actually treat ourselves a bit. I grin in satisfaction, before grabbing a small burlap sack, in which I pour the contents of the money in.

I tentatively leave the burlap sack on the table, unsure of my actions. It isn't beyond people to break into houses, and if they were to do so today then they would have free access to three hundred dollars just sitting on the table. However, it is Reaping Day, 98% of people will be at the Town Square, not rummaging through houses and risking the death penalty for not attending. Plus, it'll be a nice surprise for my mother when she arrives home.

I lock up my guitar in the case, before throwing it over my shoulders and heading towards my room. On the way there, I pass Axyl's messy room. I stop to look at it, before sighing sympathetically. The poor kids been mentally disabled from before I was born. An incident where he fell into a stream is what's responsible, as a young three year old boy that wasn't able to swim. He almost drowned, and almost couldn't be resuscitated, until eventually people were successful. Unfortunately, his brain had gone without oxygen for so long, that he was irreparably damaged mentally.

My mother's spent all her life looking after Axyl, which was made harder when my father left her. The worst thing is, I was responsible. When he found out that she had become pregnant with me, he left without a word. He never came back.

I push the horrendous thought from my mind, continuing to walk along to my room. I push open the door, entering the blisteringly humid and cramped space that I call a bedroom. I carefully rest my guitar case against the wall, before opening a small cupboard that I use as my wardrobe. I examine the contents relatively briefly, before sighing and closing the door. Why did I even bother? The most formal thing I own is what I'm wearing now, I may as well keep it on for the Reaping. I lower my eyes towards the ground, before glancing up at the mirror that shows me sitting on my bed.

I examine my features, concluding that they aren't in bad shape, there is no need for a cold shower right now. The only thing I can do is switch my shoes, so I take off my battered old sneakers, before slipping on some nicer, more formal lace less shoes.

The sound of voices comes from outside, which I determine to be passing families once I look outside. I suppose there isn't any better time to depart than now.

* * *

 _Amnemonic_

(am-nem-on-ick)

amnesic, the loss of memory

" _Anthony was quite amnemonic"_

* * *

 **Amaranth Paraillo**

 **~13~**

 **District 9**

What was today again? I scrunch up my eyebrows as I try to remember, exactly what would be happening today. As I sit on my small rickety bed, I watch as a flurry of people trudge down the street, heading towards what I presume to be the Town Square. Evidently, something important is happening, however I can't quite recall what that may be. I get the inkling that this day may be an important day, however somehow it passes over my head.

I feel as if my mother was reminding me last night, of what events may be taking place today, but no matter how much I try to think, my mind stays a blank slate. I'm sure it's important though, I vaguely recall something like this happening every year, even in the year prior to my incident. As I scratch my head, I feel my stomach begin to rumble out of hunger, seeing as I haven't eaten today. I clutch my stomach, waiting for the throbbing feeling of my empty stomach to pass.

Suddenly I feel enlightened, the specific event popping back into my mind. The Hunger Games are coming up, which means, today must be the day of the Reaping. My triumph of remembering what today is, is relatively short lived, as I remember just what the Reaping evokes. Sighing, I stand up in an effort to prepare myself. I always forget what the Hunger Games is about, and what happens in it. I'm always informed about it, but it ends up slipping my mind shortly after. The only thing embedded in my memory about it, is that almost all of the time, the people chosen at this Reaping, never come back.

From the 'Games' part of the name, I can deduce that it must be some kind of game. Perhaps if you win the game you get to live in the Capitol? Maybe District 9 wins a lot? Despite this, that theory doesn't seem right. It wouldn't really account for all the sad people that pop up as a result of these games. Unless they're just sad that the winner gets to live in the Capitol.

Regardless, I decide to shrug it off, as it doesn't concern me too much anyways. I won't get chosen, and therefore I'll have nothing to do with this. Exiting my room, I walk down the small, empty hallway towards the dining room. A series of doors exist along the way, although I can't remember what half of them are for. I notice that one of them are open, with voices emitting from the other side. The closer I get to the room, the louder the voices become, allowing me to pick up the tone of the conversation. A man and a woman's voice, both sounding concerned and somewhat desperate.

The thought to peer inside crosses my mind, however, something tells me that may be a bad idea. The conversation sound particularly private, and I wouldn't really want to intrude in on it. I come to the conclusion that I should continue on my way, however, just as I'm about to keep walking, I hear something that captures my attention.

"It's all because of that little shit, Amaranth!" A hushed male voice spits. My eyes widen, recognizing my name. Who would say such a thing? I take a deep breath, before glancing inside the room, while out of sight. A young man kneels beside a pretty woman, who rests on a rickety wooden chair. My older brother, Farro, and his girlfriend Zizania. Farro kneels with an arm against his knee, with a hand covering his mouth, which I can only assume forms a look of contempt. His eyes are cold, lowered at the ground where his scythe rests. Zizania widens her eyes, presumably at what Farro had just uttered.

"Farro, you can't say that, it's not his fault!" She scolds him. Suddenly, I remember exactly what he means by calling me a little shit, it was intended to be a negative thing. I feel a slight surge of anger, but that is quickly replaced by hurt. Why would he say something like that when I'm not even there? And why was I so delayed to react to that? What's wrong with me? I grip my head, trying to calm down with heavy breaths.

I must be some kind of freak, that's why Farro would say that. That's why I take time to process things, why my delayed reaction exists. I'm not normal. I lean against the wall, and begin to slide down it, whilst tears leak from my eyes. I make a thud as my butt hits the floor, causing both Farro and Zizania to glance at me in alert. Zizania covers her mouth with her hand upon the realization that I heard everything, whilst Farro's eyes widen in horror.

"Oh shit," he mutters, standing up abruptly, "Amaranth, please come in."

I hesitantly get up, before shuffling over to the two of them, with my hands buried in my pockets. Farro places a hand lightly on my shoulder, slouching over to get on an even level with me.

"How much of that did you hear?" Farro questions softly. I sniffle, looking up at him whilst trying to stop crying.

"The part where you called me a little shit, and said it's all my fault," I respond. Farro lowers his head with a sigh, before sitting down on the little coffee table that centers the room.

"Look, I'm sorry Amaranth, that was uncalled for. I was just so frustrated, it's been hard on Zizania and I. I want to support her, we want to move on with our lives, but I can't, because I can't just leave the family," he explains. I take a moment to understand what he is saying, however I still remain confused.

"B-because I'm a burden?" I ask. He shakes his head, almost chuckling a little.

"No little brother, it's because I need to care for you, not because you're a burden, but because you're my family," he exclaims.

"But you don't need to do that. I don't want myself to hold your life back. I can easily just get work, help to support us, it will be easy!" I argue. My heart races at the prospect of this happening, how our family can form a tighter bond, with Farro and Zizania happy, and my parents and I being perfectly fine. However I'm dismayed when Farro begins to shake his head sadly.

"I'm afraid not Amaranth, you're just not able to work in the fields," he informs me. My face falls at what he said.

"W-why not?" I ask. Farro glances over at Zizania, who grants him a knowing look. Looking back at me, Farro speaks up.

"When you were young, Amaranth, you were climbing on some of the tractors, just playing around as every young boy should. However, you. . . fell, and you were hurt," he informs me slowly, looking unsure of what direction to take.

"You had a concussion, and now, you have difficulty with remembering things, long and short term. You were in a coma for a little bit, but our family was just able to pay enough to get your treatment. That's why we're in a financial blot, and since the doctors said you couldn't work as it could trigger other problems with your brain, I have to stick around to help support the family," he explains.

I'm left silent after his explanation, taking a moment to process just exactly what happened to me. I was hurt that badly? I'm the reason why we're poor? Why Farro is bound to this family? I've been living all this time, and didn't even know?

"Why haven't you told me this before?" I ask, almost angrily. Farro eyes me with pure sympathy, shaking his head slightly.

"That's the thing Amaranth. We've told you plenty of times, you just don't remember it," he enlightens me. I stare blankly at Farro for a moment, until I come to realize that he speaks the truth. Every part of him screams that he has experienced this before, meaning I really am what he says I am. I'm incapable of supporting myself.

"It's okay Amaranth, it's not your fault, and even when we're gone, Farro will still help all of you out," Zizania says softly.

"Y-you're leaving?" I ask. Farro nods his head, before walking up to Zizania.

"Yes, we need to. You see. . . Zizania is pregnant," Farro informs me, lightly caressing Zizania's stomach. I gasp, before glancing at her stomach in an effort to find out if that's the case. Now that I look properly, I do notice a slight bulge that had not been there before.

"That's. . . great!" I exclaim happily, the prospect of having a niece or nephew overwhelming my current thought process. An ecstatic energy replaces any sorrow I had previously felt, and soon enough, I'm hugging my brother out of joy for both him and Zizania. Farro pats me on the back after a few seconds, before removing me to look me in the eyes.

"How about we begin to head off, Mother and Father are both ready," he informs me.

"Head off to what?" I ask.

"The Reaping," he replies, as he makes his way over to the door.

"Oh right," I mutter, feeling foolish that I forgot once again. The three of us make our way out to the cramped dining room, currently housing both my parents. The room isn't particularly tense, for a reason which I do happen to remember. Farro and Zizania are both nineteen now, meaning they are ineligible for this Reaping. Meanwhile, I'm only thirteen, and I think that means the likelihood that I'll get chosen is rather limited. It's not that I'm afraid to go, I think it'll be fascinating to go to the Capitol, and compete on this Game that people so often refer to. It's mainly my parents, who I suppose don't want me to leave forever if I win, if that's how it works of course.

Speaking of my parents, the pair of them appear to be waiting for us, with my mother adjusting the collar of my father's shirt. Upon seeing me, my mother appears to light up.

"Are you ready to go Amaranth?" she asks softly. I stop for a moment, having to think.

"Yes. . . for the, Reaping, right?" I ask hesitantly. She nods her head, showing discomfort at the mention of the Reaping. Wow, they really don't like the idea of this Game.

"Well I suppose we should go now," my father huffs, placing a hand on my back.

"Remember Amaranth, whatever happens, we will always love you," he assures me as my mother joins me at my side. I chuckle a bit, smiling when I look up at his solemn face.

"Don't worry dad, even if I am selected for this Game, I'm sure I won't win it, even though we seem to win it a lot since very few people come back home," I justify. Just before I turn away, I manage to see my mother and father exchanging an expression of worry between one another. I can prove myself to them, I know I can. As we continue to make our way to the Town Square, my parents make their way over to Zizania, having a conversation about what could be anything. Meanwhile, Farro drops back so that he is walking by my side.

"Amaranth, I just wanted to apologize again, I really didn't mean it," Farro murmurs sheepishly. I look up at him out of confusion.

"Apologise for what Farro?" I ask. He looks at me for a moment, his eyes blank and unreadable.

"For. . . this morning," he informs me, trailing off a bit. My forehead ceases as I struggle to work out what he is talking about.

"What happened this morning?" I ask. Farro examines me for a moment, before glancing ahead.

"Nothing, don't worry," he says quickly. I twist my mouth in response.

Huh, that was weird. I wonder what he was talking about.

* * *

 **Gingko Lyat**

 **~14~**

 **District 9**

Staring out at the fields of grain is nothing short of peculiar, with a complete lack of activity making the whole landscape seem barren. It's like a ghost town, because where normally the fields would be full of hard workers, or moving tractors, what replaces it is the soft breeze that causes the grain to willow lightly in the wind. That is the only motion that occurs, which leads me to believe that all of those people have made their way to the Town Square.

I lightly lean against the wooden fence post, staring at the drop below. As of right now, I am located on a cliff that overlooks the fields of wheat. I don't believe the fall would kill me if I was to slip, we aren't that high up. Nonetheless, I'm always certain to make sure the fence is sturdy enough before I lean against it. There is zero movement when I allow the weight of my body to rely on the fence, leading me to believe that the fence has been recently renovated. Not too long ago it was just an old rickety shamble that used to be a structured fence.

I chuckle a little as I remember that only a few years ago when I had begun to work in these fields, the fence didn't even exist. In recent years, they have decided to make the area a little more safe, with little children becoming more prominent with our population growth. Times sure have changed, one would think that the Capitol would have outgrown the celebration of children slaying one another, but alas, that would be far too much to ask for. As far as they see it, if there are no Hunger Games, there is no Panem.

"Hey! You!" I hear an aggressive voice roar from several feet away. I spin around abruptly, rather frightened by the sudden outburst of this deep tone. My eyes lock onto the large, demeaning figure of a Peacekeeper, entirely decked out in his protective white armor. He stands tall, with a stern look that a strict teacher would possess. Although his hands are empty, I can't help but notice his fingers lightly grazing the handle of the pistol tucked by his side.

I'm almost dumbfounded, does he really deem it necessary to perceive myself, a fourteen year old, unarmed, wispy District 9 girl, as a threat? I say almost, as it really isn't beyond the Peacekeepers to come across as so harsh. I can even see it from his point of view, as to why he may need access to his weapon under immediate circumstances. Not only are they rounding people up for the Reaping, but lately, there has been a surge in the amount of suicides performed by citizens of District 9.

With myself looking out at this drop, I wouldn't have put it past his expectations for myself to take the leap and snap my neck with impact. I suppose if I did go to jump, he would aim to maim me before I could get over the fence, not the smartest or most efficient system of suicide prevention, but again, Peacekeeper's aren't the brightest, and certainly aren't the most empathetic of people.

"Yes sir," I respond softly, stepping far away from the fence so he can relax his tension. It seems it works to an extent, as his arm that reaches for the pistol begins to relax.

"The Reaping begins in fifteen minutes, what the fuck do you think you're still doing out here?!" He hisses, clenching his fists. My eyes widen at the mention of the time. I didn't realize how little time I had, no wonder he's angry.

"Oh shoot, I'm so sorry, I'll get on my way now," I gasp.

"You better sprint girl, if you're not there in fifteen minutes you'll be killed for being late," he informs me. Although he delivers this sentence with a rather solemn tone, I couldn't help but pick up a little hint of bemusement. Nevertheless, I cast it out of my mind, before racing off and leaving the Peacekeeper in the dust. Three minutes into my run, I begin to start panting, struggling to keep up with the dexterity required. I may be wispy, but I certainly don't run often. I would need much more nutrition if I was to ever seriously run.

I can't help but think about how much of a struggle that would be in the arena. If I was to be running away from someone, there is an alarming chance that they would be able to catch me with ease. It's a scary thought, but at least I don't need to be too concerned about it as of now. After all, I haven't been Reaped or anything.

A few minutes later, despite feeling as if I might go into cardiac arrest, I finally make it to the Town Square. I'm confronted with the view of the shortest line to sign in that I've ever seen, meaning I must be literally one of the last people to get here. I stop a little before I get to the line, taking a few seconds to catch my breath before walking up to the line as if I had been there the whole time. There are roughly only three other people in the line that I choose, waiting to be called forward to tick off their name. My heavy breathing is hard to stifle, and before too long, a couple of the people turn around to presumably seek out the source of the heavy panting. A boy and a girl similar in age to myself, glance at me in unison. However, they appear to have a hint of recognition stir in their eyes, as if they know me.

"Hey, aren't you that girl that was playing the guitar and singing in the Town Square earlier?" The boy asks. I'm rather taken aback by the question, but I cannot help but smile softly, feeling a little nervous that they know me for that.

"Yeah, that was me," I reply politely. The accompanying girls dampened mood seems to lift a tad, her eyes glowering as she confirms who I am.

"Woah, you were incredible, you really helped relieve some of the tension many of us were facing, thanks for that," the girl smiles, appearing quite grateful.

"Keep doing what you're doing, you're something special," the boy flashes me a toothy smile, before both him and the girl are called to separate desks. I can't help but feel completely flattered by what they had to say, did I really have that type of effect of people? They certainly seemed to think so. Despite the fact that I'm about to face my third Reaping, I don't feel so grim any more. In fact, I feel like I'm on top of the world, nobody can knock me down, not the Reaping, not the Hunger Games, not the Capitol, and certainly not President Celestia Snow.

Before I can glower on the thoughts too much, I'm snapped back to the bleak reality that is the present, by a Peacekeeper that motions for me to come forward. A rather squat man is who sits behind the desk, with a red puffy face that drowns in a waterfall of sweat. No wonder he appears like this, the beating District 9 heat is enough to flush out many Peacekeepers that have once resided in the tepid weather of District 2. I'm sure the heavy white armor and porky body shape doesn't exactly assist in cooling him down.

The flustered man sighs in relief as he sees nobody behind me, signifying the last person he has to sign in. Unfortunately, this doesn't prevent him from using a hostile attitude for the remainder of his interactions with me.

"Alright hurry the fuck up, finger in here now," he grunts, pushing forward the little device meant to prick my finger. I don't say a word in order to prevent provoking the man, before sliding my finger in and waiting for the pain to come. I cry out in surprise as it pricks me a lot quicker than I thought it would, causing the man to roll his eyes in annoyance. This is before he sees my name on the screen, which causes his face to contort into a look of confusion and disgust.

"What sort of name is Gingko? You District 9 lot are so weird," he shakes his head, sliding forward a piece of paper. I find my name before pressing the bloody thumb against the box next to it.

"Finally, now join the crowd," he rushes me, causing me to stride forward and towards the fourteen-year-old section. As soon as I reach the very back, the Reaping begins to kick off. The commotion on stage appears to be our very few Victor's walking out towards their seats. The first is an old man that is our oldest living Victor, who also happens to be the second oldest living Victor out of all seventy nine. His name is Bellamy Grainsworth, and he won the 8th Hunger Games. How the hell he is still around is beyond me, but he is a highly respected figure in our District. I haven't watched Bellamy's Hunger Games, but from what I've heard, he was a very charismatic, talented young man. He rallied a few other tributes up against the newly formed Career Pack, and all I know is that he came out on top.

Next is Stephen Lovejoy, Victor of the 31st Hunger Games. Stephen is starting to get a bit old himself, and I also haven't really watched the Hunger Games that he won. From what I've heard, that year the arena was a savannah with very long grass, which definitely would have given the District 9 tributes a huge advantage. Stephen survived by knowing the plants that he could eat, being used to the type of terrain, and stalking his competition through the fields. While many alliances got lost, and separated in the tall grass, Stephen had the main parts of the arena mapped out by Day 3 because of his skill with navigating the wheat fields back home. The only challenges he faced were the District 11 tributes, who were also fairly skilled with the terrain, and a particularly persistent pyromaniac from District 12, that just couldn't help but burn down half of the arena.

The next Victor is Bran Fields, who won the 41st Hunger Games. I did in fact watch this years Games, even though it wasn't that spectacular. Bran was simply unnoticed, he had a mediocre appearance, a typical Reaping reaction, an average training score, a forgettable interview, and was completely overlooked during the Hunger Games. He wasn't a target, and he wasn't someone that just unleashed some secret ability, he just possessed enough of a capability to stay out of drama, kill when necessary, and by the end, he was in the best shape against the behemoth from District 2, and the psychotic bitch from District 4. What intrigued people so much about Bran, was that he was the definition of an underdog, nobody could figure out how he made it on top. Yet, somehow he did.

The last Victor to come out on stage, is our most recent and the only female District 9 has ever brought home, that being Ryess Cyth, Victor of the 66th Hunger Games, and the daughter of the busker that taught me. Ryess was always a formidable tribute during her Hunger Games, she showed herself to be capable of being a threat quite early on, and seeing how uncommon this was for District 9, she received quite a lot of attention and love from the Capitol. This however, meant that she would be a major target for other tributes such as the Career's. She would come out of the Games with one of the highest kill counts, with most of the kills she performed being in self-defense. Ryess used a sickle those Games, and she became so attached to it, and so traumatized by the Games, that she still carries the sickle by her side to this day. I watch it dangle by her side, as she walks towards her seat. I've heard that she even sleeps with it under her pillow, I'm surprised President Snow had allowed her to keep the weapon, I suppose he liked the story behind it.

After Bellamy, Stephen, Bran and Ryess sit down, the Mayor of District 9 steps forward until he can speak into the microphone. The crowd is already silent, so he wastes no time before speaking.

"Good afternoon, and welcome, to the Reaping for the 80th Annual Hunger Games," he says smoothly, with a voice so buttery it melts in ones ears.

"The time has arrived, once again, to introduce our lovely escort to perform one of the greatest privileges in all of Panem. Please give a warm welcome, to Autumn Summersby!" Our Mayor steps away from the microphone, as a light applause breaks out for our Escort, Autumn. Soon enough, she's waltzing onto the stage with a light smile and hand up in the air waving. Her hair falls in waves, colored just like fall colors that match her own name. Her round face and glowing amber eyes are prominent alongside her tanned, caramel skin, whilst her pearly teeth stick out against the darker tones of her face.

Autumn reaches the microphone before saying anything, and once she speaks up, I remember why she's one of our better Escorts that we've had. The majority of Escort's that District 9 has had in the past have absolutely hated the fact that they got stuck with District 9, the District responsible for grain. Yet Autumn hasn't shown any evidence of possessing these views even once, in the few years she has Escorted us. As she speaks, her voice is light, humble, not at all pretentious or annoying as most Capitol citizens tend to sound.

"Hello District 9, its great to be back this year and it's great to see all of you as well! I'm sure you're all waiting for the main event, so let's not keep anyone on the edge of their seats!" She states, keeping a relatively passive face. One that doesn't make her look overly excited at the aspect of shipping two kids off to their deaths, nor one that makes her appear anti-Hunger Games.

"I think we will mix things up this year, and break traditions, just as Panem has done with its first ever female President! In this case, let's start off with the boys," she suggests. A few people in the crowd mutter in concern, the deep hum suggesting it is many of the boys that are fearing their name coming out of that bowl. I allow my chest to relax a little, knowing that my fate still has a few minutes before being determined.

Autumn steps over to the bowl belonging to the males, before plucking a slip of paper right off the top of the left side of the bowl.

 _She sure has no issue with speeding through this._

As she steps up towards the microphone, she is already unfolding the piece of paper. Everyone holds their breath, as she reads the name before announcing it. This is it, will we get a strong, skilled tribute this year like Stephen Lovejoy was? Or will it be more of the same? I get my answer directly after.

"So our District 9's male tribute for the 80th Hunger Games is. . . Amaranth Paraillo, I think I said that correctly," she calls out, sounding unsure. There is no immediate reaction from the crowd, which could be a good and bad sign. I try and recognize the name from the fields, but I don't believe I've ever heard of it. It seems as if that's the case for every other person, because anyone I look at has a blank expression.

Several seconds pass, and still nobody has moved, causing Autumn to sweep over the crowd with her eyes in an attempt to pin point a terrified young child. However, I distinctly hear a voice coming from the thirteen-year-old section, a bit ahead to my left.

"W-why did that woman just say my name?" I hear a young boy question, with a voice that has clearly just entered the early stages of puberty. It's literally milliseconds before people are moving back, surrounding the poor boy as if he had the plague. I finally see him, standing in the center of a circle of people. His dark brown eyes are held in an expression of shock, one that could have been due to being Reaped, or because these people have just shunned him. His skin is a light tanned color, rather common for people from District 9, whilst his dark brown hair is sides wept and thick. He's rather short, unsurprising for the ripe age of thirteen, whilst his body is lean and hardly muscular, suggesting he hasn't been working in the fields.

From initial observations, I can conclude that Amaranth certainly appears to be more of the same. I stare at him, until the Peacekeeper's surround him, to take him to the stage.

* * *

 **Amaranth Paraillo**

 **~13~**

 **District 9**

Eyes. All I can see are a sea of multicolored eyes, all staring me down as if I had just committed a murder. Adding on top of that, my shock at having this woman call out my name has only just hit me because of my delayed reaction to emotion, meaning moving me is proving to be a difficulty for the men in white armor. Didn't this mean that I was going to the Capitol? To participate in some Game?

Looking up at the pretty woman on stage, I realize that I have been escorted all the way to the front of the line. Jeez, I've never had so much attention on me in all of my life. Suddenly, I feel a pang of fear and pain, a piercing pain that penetrates my head. I don't actually feel these emotions, but I remember feeling them. Why am I feeling this? Closing my eyes, the men lead the way and direct me, causing me to pay attention to what I see behind my closed eyes instead. A picture, of something that's happened in the past. A memory?

It's fuzzy, and distorted, but I'm able to briefly make out what I'm being shown. The warm, yellow sky of District 9, wheat stalks awkwardly sticking up around the outskirts of my field of vision, as if something was on top of the stems and making them wilt. Was it my body? Suddenly I see people's faces, none that I recognize, just the outlines of hair. These silhouettes begins to fade, as I begin to lose connection to this scene.

I shake my head in surprise, at what I just experienced. Huh, the last time I had that much attention on me. Somehow, I guess that thought triggered a memory. I don't get to think about it for too long, as my body is violently shoved forward towards the bottom of the stairs. I take one shaky step forward, and then another, until I keep doing it so that I reach the top. When I do reach the top, I see the woman smiling kindly, and sympathetically towards me, with an outstretched hand that I suppose suggests that she wants to take me somewhere. I raise my arm forwards until she lightly takes my wrist, before she leads me towards the middle of the stage where the microphone stands.

Being up on the stage is the only way to truly absorb what is happening, that literally everyone in the District is looking at me. I can't spot my parents, nor can I see Farro and his fiancée. The crowd is deathly quiet, boring their stares into me as they try to work me out. Many look sympathetic, dispirited, some shake their heads, and other can't bear themselves to look. W-what's wrong with me?

"Congratulations Amaranth, you've been selected to participate for District 9 in this year's Hunger Games! How are you feeling?" The woman asks. She puts the microphone in front of my mouth, taking me by surprise.

"I-I don't feel anything, I don't know how I'm meant to feel," I reply, sort of spluttering the first line.

"Well, I think you should be pretty damn excited! A once in a lifetime opportunity is what you have Amaranth!" The lady beams. Despite this, I see how she truly feels in her eyes. It's a look of sorrow, a look of pity. It takes a few seconds, but I begin to feel discomfort. Perhaps my reaction time is speeding up.

"O-okay, yeah, I'm proud that I can represent my District," I speak up, deciding to make the best of this situation. The lady pats my back, before turning to the crowd.

"That's the spirit we're looking for! Now let's see who shall be joining Amaranth in the arena this year," she states, before making her way over to the other bowl. She swiftly grabs another slip of paper, before making her way back towards the middle of the stage and reading out what the paper says.

"Joining Amaranth as the District 9 female representative this year is. . . Gingko Lyat." The crowd doesn't really react, although it seems like the girls all seem to let out a deep sigh of relief. It's only a few seconds before some shuffling begins to occur in the crowd of fourteen-year-olds, with the people dispersing to allow a path for Gingko. I see a young girl, clearly a year older than me, with long, dark brown hair, an olive complexion similar to mine, and eyes so dark they could appear black. Her face is very symmetrical, in fact she looks quite pretty. She wears her hair in a high pony tail, yet it still falls to the middle of her back. She appears short of breath, as if she had been running not so long ago. Her body is quite thin, but aside from the heaving her chest makes from the heavy breathing, she doesn't tremble or quiver as I was tempted to do so.

Hey eyes connect with mine, but I read nothing from how she looks at me. She's seems to be under control of herself, who am I to judge her without properly meeting her. When people have had a proper look at her, they begin to murmur and whisper to one another. I manage to overhear words such as 'singer', and 'busker', leading me to believe that she is at least recognized by a few people for singing.

Have I ever seen her before? Have I heard her sing? I close my eyes momentarily, trying to recapture that ability to remember an event, as I had done so only a few minutes ago. I don't visually see anything, but I do in fact hear something. Unfortunately it's not her singing, but it sounds like Farro.

 _You had a concussion, and now, you have difficulty with remembering things, long and short term._

Farro had only said that this morning, didn't he? Perhaps I have heard her sing, but if I have, I certainly do not remember doing so. Gingko eventually makes it to the top of the stairs, where she awkwardly edges out towards the middle of the stage. I faintly hear the woman beside me sigh, before she speaks up in an excited tone.

"Don't be shy Gingko, how are you feeling?" The woman asks. Gingko blinks, before glancing at the cameras and back down at the floor.

"I feel, okay I guess," she responds, sounding quite uncertain.

"Well no stress, because District 9 will be behind the two of you every step of the way," the woman informs us, before turning to the crowd.

"That allows us to wrap up this year's Reaping! I look forward to seeing you next year District 9, or hopefully when one of these two lovely young individuals win! Now if you two could shake hands," she requests quietly to the two of us. My eyes look up to Gingko, as we both exchange a handshake. Gingko doesn't look at me, she just sadly looks down at the floor. I cannot help but twist my mouth in somewhat confusion. She seems so upset, should I be as well?

The woman then takes both of our hands, before raising them into the air.

"Give a round of applause for Amaranth Paraillo and Gingko Lyat, the District 9 tributes of the 80th Hunger Games!" The woman exclaims, earning a soft patter of applause from the audience. I don't get much time to appreciate it however, as both Gingko and I are swept away by a swarm of men in white armor. I try and get one last look at Gingko, but unfortunately my view of her is blocked. As the men lead me towards the big building, I reflect on what just happened.

What have I gotten myself into?

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **It's been a long time coming. I'm so sorry for all the time of kept you guys waiting, I spent far too long without updating Bloodline and it really isn't acceptable. I won't stay on this subject though, I would like to leave that in the past. Nonetheless, it's good to be back, and I can't wait to get the Reaping's done!**

 **So what did you think of this chapter? I must say I was probably a bit rusty so I'm sorry if it seemed sort of lacking, a lot of it was written with time gaps in between, so I hope it wasn't too clunky or anything. What did you think of Gingko and Amaranth? Got any predictions for the two of them? Amaranth was difficult to write, as he has this memory loss problem, so the writing pans out well!**

 **Well that's it for now, I'll see you guys when I've uploaded District 10's Reaping. Have a good day/night!**


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